


An Act of Zealotry

by MeatballSander



Series: Welcome to Gallow's Creek [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood and Injury, Coffee Shops, Cults, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Gods, Halloween, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Multi, No Beta, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, POV Multiple, Small Towns, Urban Fantasy, Whump, pop culture references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26893048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeatballSander/pseuds/MeatballSander
Summary: Halloween in Gallow's Creek is usually an eventful affair, but this year in a different way than normal. A teenaged girl, a coffee shop owner, and an aging warlock end up having to deal with it.
Relationships: Original Character(s) & Original Character(s), Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Series: Welcome to Gallow's Creek [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650853
Kudos: 1





	1. October 25th

**Author's Note:**

> I've always loved the idea of NaNoWriMo, but I've never found the time or constitution to be able to finish it. I started this for NaNoWriMo 2019, and it's gone through 4 (all incomplete) drafts since. Now I just aim to finish it before NaNoWriMo 2021.
> 
> But nonetheless! AAoZ is a long term passion project of mine and the formal introduction of my ocverse. I hope you enjoy!

"Gallow's Creek never used to be inhabited by monsters."

The man paced the dark, polished floor, his heels clicking rhythmically with every step. He wasn't wrong. Gallow's Creek used to be like any other town - it had its fair share of tall tales, sure; all kinds of myths and superstitions, but it was only in the nineteen-forties those stories jumped off the pages of the book and into every nook and cranny of his beloved townscape. When those monsters decided to slip into human society - our society - they decided they were never going to be budged out of it. And for the past three quarters of a century, they have been right. But the era of monsters is over. They scream of equality, of mortals and demons and angels and everything in-between holding one another hand in hand without a care in the world, but that's all it is. A scream in the dark.

Walking on the street above, he knew those very monsters he loathed were enjoying their Friday night. _'Enjoying'_ is a strong word, thought upon a double take. Do creatures like those even feel emotions close to joy? Those anomalies of nature, slithering and shambling down the sidewalk of that town. His town. The town where he was born and raised. It's not their town. It's his. _His._

A man in the back of the hall cleared his throat. Crap, had he been daydreaming again instead of giving his speech? Salvaging himself, he let out a warm breath and with a click of gloved fingers faced the crowd of adolescents facing him. Such bright young faces. Bright, young, mortal faces, full of potential.

"And we all know it doesn't have to be!" He clasped his hands together, his disgust hidden behind a charming smile. "The fact that every one of you is here proves that. The immense number of you proves that these unnatural beings around us are, well... Unnatural."

His smile changed in tone, from energetic to proud. He gazed upon the crowd in front of him, looking as many of these kids as he could in the eye. Or, well, where their eyes would be. A big part of the initiation involved having your eyes shut for years on end, bound by a red cloth, and that made it pretty damn hard to look them in the eye.

"With your support, your faith, those anomalies will be cast back into the dark where they belong. The streets of Gallow's Creek will once again be walked by humans and humans alone. Those creatures will be placed under the scrutiny of the world stage, shown for not who, but what they truly are! And you, my darling brothers and sisters... You will make it happen. You give us, your elders, the power to fight back!" His voice softened. "Make no mistake: you are not just the world's saviours. You are the saviours of the goddess."

The audience broke into rapturous applause. He took a deep bow, pinching the brim of his hat to keep it firmly on his head. With the momentum of his ascent, he walked out of the auditorium with a newfound spring in his step.

Exiting into the corridor he slipped into the darkness. The walls, the floor, the ceiling - they were all a deep, reflective shadow, as if a tunnel of black water. All the surfaces of this monastery were, but it was especially suffocating in spaces as small as this. It's not as if it mattered, however. This was merely a temporary home - soon, the sun that bounced off of Gallow's Creek's brick buildings would be back upon his ever-so-pale skin. And it's not as if this reality is even the true one, either: once the Order of the Obelisk grabbed the Mother of Madness's attention, she'd surely change their outlook to see the world as it truly is. Like a swirl of sugar syrup in a bitter, dark coffee.

"I would recommend to not lose face again." Said a hard voice behind him. Deep and steady, yet almost silent. It wasn't a voice to be heard often. "I understand that there's not much you could do to ruin the disciples' impression of us, but faltering under the limelight is..."

"Unprofessional?" He proposed, twirling a lock of his silky black hair around a gloved finger. For someone being criticized, his demeanor showed no sign of shame.

"Yes." The other man was much taller than him, slim but muscular and built like a warrior, his sepia brown skin worn from the elements. He was a quiet person - when they had first met, the hatted man was under the impression it was a vow of silence. It wasn't until after hearing his voice for the first time he realised it was a personal choice: he simply wasn't one for small talk. Or really medium talk. Barely even large talk. He certainly wasn't up for it now, at least. The only sound that the corridor witnessed was their shoes hitting the floor: his own a sharp click, his taller companion's an unruly slap.

The corridor forked, and the two veered away from each other, the noises drifting apart. It was like a mountain path, the way the hallway loved to dance left and right. According to the people who had sold it to them, it was made by a paranoid millionaire back in the fifties for an unknown reason. He secretly hoped it was made by an early member of the Obelisk, or at least a member of a similar faith, for the same purpose it was used for now: a refuge from the world next door, and a base of operations to fight back against it.

"Come in." A voice called out before he even got the chance to knock on a large door that laid at the end of the corridor. He smiled to himself, turning the polished metal handle.

"How did you know I was there?" He said, coming in. It was a huge hall, made of that same black material on all sides. Banners of the Order of the Obelisk - scarlet, bearing a pillar of black and a sigil of an eye above it - hung on the far wall, and a desk sat in the middle of the room, clearly the focal point of the area.

"Even the deaf can hear your heels coming from a mile away, Abby." She sighed, peering at him over circular, thin-framed glasses. She put her pen back in its cradle, standing up to meet him - her demeanor was less that graceful but made up for it in its unwavering confidence, her presence somehow more commanding.

The man known as Abby giggled. It was a high pitched, an echoing squeal that pierced your eardrums and rattled around your skull. She disregarded his response, instead picking a paper up from the cluttered inbox on her otherwise tidy desk.

"Your shipment arrived." She said, positioning the sheet erect in one hand.

"Oh, really?" A wide grin slapped on his face, he clapped his hands together in childlike delight.

"You said nothing about it being forty gallons of werewolf blood." She tacked on flatly, raising an eyebrow at him.

"I figured it would be for the disciples. It's nice for them to have a treat once in a while, don't you agree? And it's good for them to get used to the taste; it'll make it easier come initiation."

"Why the hell would it _not_ be for the disciples?"

"Why, don't you think I could finish it all myself?"

For the first time the woman let slip any form of positivity, in the form of an amused grin. "Oh, I've known you long enough to not underestimate you like so. I'm merely suggesting that if you carried out an operation of such a large scale to feed your own desires and not for the good of the Order, I'd, well, I'd likely throat chop you."

He giggled again, her chuckling softly underneath it. But despite the friendly airs, she still hasn't loosened up.

The woman adjusted her glasses, her smile fading. "Still, forty gallons is what, twenty-seven, twenty-eight victims? That's not unnoticeable, Abby."

"Victims? They weren't victims." Abby grew defensive; a stark change in his personality. "They were monsters, Mona."

She paused, as if fazed; aware of her stumble. But her stoic expression returned within moments. "Don't change the subject. Of course I agree they were monsters, but I'm telling you that that's not how they will see it. Something so rash, lacking in subtlety... It's not going to be brushed off. They may find us out. Do better next time."

Abby cocked his head, picking up on how quickly she threw up her defences rather than her perfectionist nature calling out her own mistakes. "You're concerned about releasing the demon?" His intimidation was already gone, that playfulness replacing it. It was scary how quickly he could change between those states, as if they were the two presets that came free with his personality.

"I suppose." Mona responded, not at all convincingly. ' _Suppose_ ' didn't quite cut it. "But these killings weren't too far from here. Do we really want speculation on the Obelisk right before we strike?"

"They weren't from our monastery, Mona - just some disciples from abroad who owed me a favour." He waved a hand nonchalantly. "We're fine!"

"But they still wear our uniforms."

"Nobody saw them, Mona." Abby pouted. "They only saw the remains of the day."

She looked him in the eye - it was hard to tell who was scarier. "I'm trusting you on that, Abby."

"I would never let you down." He smiled wide. It was a fake smile, though his words were genuine. She seemed satisfied with his response, at the very least.

"So, Abby, if you find werewolves suitable for the disciples, what do you find worthy of a connoisseur such as yourself?" She indicated to the IV bag strapped to his top hat with a lazy flick of her hand as she came forward to meet him, passing on the details of his shipment. The full bag, brimming with a dark red liquid (easy to guess the contents of) was strapped around the hat's column with an elasticated cord, and the tube that ran down from it ended with a spout - it was a similar setup to a beer hat.

"Oh!" He smiled, happy to talk about something he truly cared about. "Succubus. Lavernas Succubus, specifically. The bitch put up a damn good fight, but that just makes it so much more delectable, don't you think?"

He giggled again, his free hand playing with the spigot now that the memory of the event was dancing around his head. She smiled with him, but said nothing.

"How much longer do you think you'll need before the demon is ready?" He inquired as she sat back down.

"No longer than a week. Believe me, it's just as excited as we are." She put her hands together on the desk: it was her turn to smile genuinely.

"It was truly ingenious of you, using their own side against them."

"It's why I'm in charge." She laughed. "Relay that onto Adam, would you?"

"That you're smart?" He smirked.

"Oh, he should know that by now. No, that he has no longer than a week to prepare."

"Can do!" He tipped his hat to her, exiting the office with a flourish, a giggle, and waning sharp clicks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this isn't getting beta read, if you find any glaring spelling mistakes please don't hesitate to drop a comment!


	2. October 30th, 6AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School's started back up so I don't know how consistently or frequently I'll be able to update this. I'm currently working on the fifth chapter - I'm thinking there'll be around 35?

Robin enjoyed Halloween. He especially enjoyed Halloween in Gallow's Creek. Where Halloween elsewhere around the country involved people dressing up as their deepest fears, here the deepest fears dressed as themselves, throwing a several day long celebration not unlike that seen during pride month. Though a mere human himself, upon moving to Gallow's Creek - or GC, as he preferred to call it - Robin had thrown himself into a melting pot with some of the most colorful people he'd even seen, like a potato adding substance (though truthfully little appeal) to a more flavorful dish.

Although he was lacking in life's metaphorical dish, he reckoned his physical dishes weren't half bad. His café, The Rosebud, had some good soups and cakes on offer (if he did say so himself), all homemade right there by him in his kitchen. Still, the shop's main appeal was the task he preferred: brewing drinks for his patrons. Something about the allure of the whirlpools formed in a newly stirred drink gave Robin a great sense of content, fully satisfied when the customer drank the last drop of his handiwork.

Six o'clock had recently struck, the sun scaling the town's monolithic buildings with all the strength it could muster. Robin had spent the night making little bats and spiders out of black construction paper to hang around the café, hanging them up last night before he went to bed in eager anticipation for the holiday. ...Was it racist to hang them? The bats? Were bats racist towards vampires? Maybe he'd be better off taking down the bats and just leaving up the spiders... No, he hadn't had a problem in previous years with hanging bats, he was sure-

Ding!

He broke from his moral dilemma upon the tinkling of the café door - his first customer had arrived earlier than expected. With haste he stood up from his sitting position in the back room and spun around to make his way to the café floor and greet they first person he'll see today... Except he spun himself much too hard and ended up tripping over his chair and crashing into the table.

"Just one moment!" Robin exclaimed through nervous laughter, doing his best to hide the soreness. He slipped a hair tie down his wrist, forming a little bun (from the locks that just loved to get in his eyes) to sit neatly upon the rest of his chin length, bluntly cropped hair. He was a natural strawberry blonde, but had been dying it dark green since high school, and it amused him how the bun vaguely reminded him of a cabbage. Cabbage was a fun word, in his opinion.

No, no, no, this was no time for _cabbage antics!_ Patting his cheeks roughly, he went over to the far wall and slung on a charcoal colored apron, tying a bow neatly behind his back and flumping out any remaining residue from its previous usage. Satisfied with his preparations he reached for the door handle with one hand and flicked on a radio by the near wall with another, heading out to greet his customer.

As he passed into the main floor from the back room, Robin registered the song: _Arabella_ (by the Arctic Monkeys, right?) started on the radio, and frankly Robin couldn't come up with a more fitting song if he tried. Though Robin saw him often around town the man in front of him was no regular to his shop - he had remembered a friend of his complaining he didn't like coffee.

Felix Glass: highly esteemed by the people of Gallow's Creek, let alone not the world. Okay, a _bit_ of an exaggeration, but to say he was anything less than a celebrity would be incorrect. In his heyday, the man worked with an amateur photographer, and the anthology of work that bloomed from her portfolio on him was more than breathtaking. Robin knew the photographer was now living it up in New York, off the back of the success - how her subject managed to be scouted by the town to work at the school, nevermind why on earth such a famous man agreed, was an affair Robin wasn't sure he'd ever really understand even if someone bothered explaining it to him.

But here he was, standing with expectant eyes on Robin. He was svelte, tall, and the living definition of elegance. The low ponytail of his white silky hair, a telltale sign of his prestige as a True Vampire ( _please don't notice the bats please don't notice the bats_ ), slid around his neck with a satisfying sound as it tickled the fabric of his black blouse, his neck craning to peak out the window. A dark parasol was tucked under his arm: Robin probably should get his order and get him out before sunbeams penetrated the windows and he had to report a body. Or... Pile of dust? Dried husk? Puddle of flesh? Vampires were weird.

Figuring he shouldn't begin the conversation by imagining his customer's corpse, Robin shook the notion from his mind.

"Good morning!" He beamed. "Dropping by on your way to work, mister-"

"Felix is fine." He interrupted, repositioning a pair of heavily tinted browline sunglasses on his head. The tone wasn't offensive, but it wasn't passive or nervous, either. He seemed merely... Assertive. "And yes."

"I have to admit, you never struck me as a coffee person." Robin tilted his head, meeting the taller man's blood-colored gaze with a tinge of curious humour as he slipped the little he knew about him into the conversation.

"You're clearly in the right profession." Those lips, tinted with monarch orange, pressed into a tight line. "But I can't be bothered making tea in the staff room. Once the leaves outside changed color, everyone else all began to clamber around the coffee machine so much they've basically deified it. There will be a shrine there before the winter is over, mark my words."

Robin chuckled at the comment, particularly at the exasperated flourish of his fingers he ended it with. "Mayoi has told me about that before."

His eyes opened a little at that, those pale lids raising to flash more crimson. "Mayoi comes here?"

"She's certainly not a regular, but I've made her tea in the past. She's told me a lot about the music teacher, a mister something Craric?"

"Ugh," Felix slumped at his very mention, "he's a Dark Fool? More like pompous one - who has the weakest tolerance for the cold I've ever seen. Watch him drink coffee when the room temperature is lower than normal; it's like someone who's been gifted the nectar of the gods."

"Oh, come on, I gotta agree with him there," Robin reasoned. "It's still only your first year in Gallow's Creek, right? Sounds like they've already got you stretched thin."

Robin continued, flicking through a notepad on the counter: "So, do you have any idea of what you would like?"

"Do you remember whatever Mayoi got last?" He shrugged.

"I think it was a plum brew, but I don't think it's currently in stock. Would pear do? It's rather sweet, though."

"It'll do. I'll take it to go."

"Coming right up," he nodded.

Robin turned his back on him, and Felix spoke. His voice was always unwavering, and the absence of breath made him flinch: "To answer your question, yes, it's still my first year."

"Students nice?" Robin made idle conversation as he located the leaves.

"Tolerable. Most of them above first year seem genuinely interested in the subject, which makes it easier."

"You teach textiles, right?"

"...Fashion tech, yes. Looking at styles throughout modern history and making your own garments, the like."

"You're the guy to teach it." Robin shrugged. "I guess you're a good model for your students to use, too!"

Felix raised an eyebrow (Robin couldn't see him; he just knew). "I feel like using a mannequin is more practical."

The conversation promptly died, and Robin hoped to god this tea was the best he'd ever drunk, because there was no way his attempt at banter would keep him coming back.

  
*

  
The next customer came in around twenty minutes or so later, this time the radio deep in the weather report.

She was a regular here, arriving every weekday morning (and occasionally weekend afternoons) before setting off to face the day. She was someone who couldn't function without their morning coffee, but like Robin hated instant. Despite still being in school, she burned with a passion for coffee, much like he did. He respected that.

"Mornin', Dee." Robin said in a quieter but just as cheery a voice as the one he greeted Felix with.

"Ermph." Dee responded, her eyes squinting. She swayed like she was about to fall asleep where she stood.

"The usual?"

Dee tilted her head sassily in a way that Robin understood as a yes.

Dee, more formally known as Desirée, wasn't human, but was very similar to one. She was a Salancrotal, a race of matriarchal venomous creatures derived from salamanders and snakes, who were famous for their short temper, sharp reaction time, and the ability to produce venom so strong that it could dissolve steel like water poured on sugar. In other words, it was wise not to mess up her order.

Dee's drink was one of Robin's favorites to prepare, and he'd prepared it so much for her that it came to him naturally: a caramel frappuccino, extra cream. A coffee purist would scorn them for enjoying it, but if it gave you the hit of caffeine (and sugar) you needed to start the day and it tasted good, where's the harm?

"All done!" Robin cheered as he turned back to the counter a few minutes later, drink in hand, smiling at Dee. She accepted it drearily, and took a startlingly long sip as he put her payment in the register.

"Thanks." She nodded, wincing at the light from the ceiling fan above as she slowly waited for the caffeine to kick in.

"Aw, I'm just doing what I do best."

"You certainly do it well."

The two chuckled. Dee swapped which hand was holding the lidded plastic cup moreover dug the now free hand deep into her coat. It was a long, fluffy coat that was the most horrendous, truest shade of chartreuse: a visualisation of the word "tacky", Robin often thought. It was something that was quintessentially Dee; something that only she could pull off, and she let no one even begin to imply she wasn't totally rocking it.

Speaking of fashion, actually: "Say, do you take fashion tech? As a subject?" He snapped his fingers.

"Yeah, why?" She asked between sips, the curiosity in her voice sounding almost accusatory.

"You've got Fel- I mean, Mr Glass?"

"The one and only," Dee punctuated her pause with a long draw of her straw, "why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason. Just wondering about the teachers," Robin shrugged defensively. He wasn't quite sure why: he had nothing to hide, but perhaps it was easier than explaining his morning.

Dee seemed satisfied, and distant music resumed. _Caught in the Middle,_ Dee had explained, when Robin caught her bopping her head to it.

"So uh..." Robin cleared his throat, a conversation topic smacking him.

"Spit it out," she lolled; a lazy response but still evidently enthralled.

"A little birdie told me you've found yourself a boyfriend." Robin smirked, presenting the gossip now she seemed a little more awake. Dee raised her eyebrow, her eyes now noticeably open: they were a pale purple, complimenting the toxic deep violet of her voluminous hair.

"Grimes tell you this?"

"Shirley."

Dee nodded, rocking on the heels of her brown ankle boots, looking at the ceiling fan above her. "That bitch."

"She said his name is Ron." Robin almost purred. He was enjoying this.

"Oh, I am so going to kill her."

"She said you call him Ronnie, and he calls you Dessie."

"I spoke too soon," Dee smacked her lips together. "I am so going to torture and then kill her."

Robin broke out laughing at her bright red face, and to his surprise Dee chuckled along, a dangerous grin forming. "I'm not sure what you find so funny, Robin. It's not like I'm the only one with something about their love life to hide."

This time it was his turn to raise an eyebrow. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh, let's see... Anton, is it?"

Robin went pale. "How... Who told you that?"

Dee cackled. "Oh, come on! When I was in here last weekend, I saw you flirting with him as you made his drink."

"I was not flirting."

"True. You were trying to flirt with him, but miserably failing at it."

"...Do you think he realised I was flirting?"

"Just because he's undead doesn't mean he doesn't have a brain."

Robin sighed, feeling himself flush. He tried to retort, but she butted in before he could come up with a good response: "Don't look now, but I'm pretty sure that's his car turning the corner."

"What?" Robin exclaimed, shooting up from his slumped position. Dee was leaning towards the window, looking out as she sipped her frappe.

"Yep. He's getting out now. That's Officer Wardell alright."

"H-he's early today!"

"Now, now. If you really hit it off, you'll get to see him earlier than six-thirty. Much, much later, too."

"Dee, I swear to god..."

Dee cackled once more. "I'm gonna split. Got places to go, people to see, girls named Shirley to kill. Unless you need a wingman?" Her grin had gone from dangerous to devilish.

"I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Attaboy. Happy Halloween, Robin."

"Happy Halloween."

Ding. Dee left, the tinkle of the doorbell singing her goodbye. Robin felt his breathing quicken; damn, he could do with a paper bag to breathe in. Then again, hyperventilating into a disposable bag wasn't a trait many found alluding to a romantic partner. Maybe he could position himself in a more comfortable position, or at least something that made it less obvious he was shaking. Get it together, Robin!

The tinkle of the doorbell mocked him in song.

Anton was a soft spoken man with a deep voice, like thick caramel. Standing at six-foot-three, the guy was less muscular and more just built like a wall, with dark skin and dark hair, a thin scar around the circumference of his neck. His skin had a certain coolness about it, coming from its blue undertones, his eyes sunken and grey. They sat under those bushy russet brown eyebrows, a full yet neatly trimmed beard of matching color and composition framing his face (and a perfect full head of hair to top). He worked as a police officer and as his morning visits to Robin took place right before he clocked in, he always turned up in his uniform. Dashing and charming, dressed in blue. By god, was he handsome.

It wasn't as if he had fallen in love with Anton at first sight; despite his demeanor, Robin was more practical than that - he did run a small business, after all. But since The Rosebud's grand opening five years ago, Anton had come in every day, brightening Robin's mood for hours after their meeting. The two hit it off fast and stuck as best friends (there was no doubt they were close) but after a while Robin wondered if the person who was the main reason you got out of bed each morning qualified as more than just a friend.

"Busy as always, I see." Anton remarked upon enter, gazing around the empty room.

"Oh, hush, you." Robin smirked back, hands on his hips. Anton chuckled.

"I like the decoration." Anton said, neatly tucking an askew chair near the door back under the table. What a gentleman. "People around here always go over the top for Halloween; it's nice to see something simple and traditional."

"Ah, that's a relief! No one else was mentioning it, so I was beginning to worry if I was the only one seeing them."

"That's... A very niche ability to have. To be able to see something others can't: not ghosts, not demons, but construction paper bats."

"I'm very special." Robin winked, and Anton chuckled. He pulled off a wink!

Robin turned around to begin preparing Anton's drink, but found he couldn't allow himself to concentrate on his thoughts. He had a bad habit of saying what he was thinking when lost in thought, and if he started thinking about Anton, who knows what shenanigans it could lead to... The mind reels in embarrassment.

"So," Robin began, still facing away, making Anton's drink. "Any more leads on that werewolf case?"

Anton hesitated. "We found another body in the forest last night. We already seem to have pinpointed the rough area the event took place. We'll run a full search of the place once Halloween blows over."

"What is that, the nineteenth since the full moon?"

Anton spoke through gritted teeth. "Twenty-eight missing. I wouldn't be surprised if we found twenty-eight bodies. Hell, it'd be concerning if we didn't."

"Christ. And all of them bone dry?"

"That's right."

Robin shook his head. "That chupacabra boy isn't still being blamed, is he?"

"Ray? Nah, he couldn't have done it. He's not powerful enough." Anton said, sounding helpless. "Besides, he's Sheriff Marshall's boy. And no one knows better than Sheriff Marshall that that kid is no killer."

Robin looked over his shoulder at him, eyebrows downturned. "Please tell me you have at least a little good news regarding the case."

Anton shifted. "Well..."

"Well?"

"I was doing some snooping recently, and learned of a werewolf woman in the community who didn't die on the night of the twenty-fourth. The interesting thing about her is that her wife often follows her when she turns, making sure she's safe while she's shifted. I'm going to question her later today - hopefully she saw something."

"Wow, look at you playing detective!"

Anton shrugged, a humble smile on his face. It was a cute smile. "Budget cuts."

"Really?" Robin began. "Well, if that's so..."

"Yes?"

"Would I be able to play detective with you? After all, I wouldn't need paid."

"I'm not..." He hesitated, initially seeming like his answer would be a solid no, but his face shifted. "Ramona's not actually coming with me to interview her, so I suppose that creates a temporary partner vacancy... But it's not like I can take on just anyone to help with a case, Robin."

"Hey, since when have I been demoted to 'just anyone'?" He replied sharply, pouting.

Anton gave him a sideways glance, which evolved into an eyeroll. "Meet me at the police station at five this afternoon. You can't arrest anyone, and you best not be late. And not a word of this to anyone. My boss would have my head."

With a final stir of the cup, Robin held out his drink: iced coffee, black. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've rewritten this chapter over and over again. Robin's always so much fun to write, but with each incarnation of this story I always end up swapping out those he meets. 
> 
> Oh, and hey! If you want more of a background about Dee I'd recommend reading the fourth installment in this series! It's set around a year before this story, and though it isn't essential for enjoying this it might give you a firmer grasp on her personality.


	3. October 30th, 7AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooooo I'm back!  
> I've been slowly chipping away at this; attempting to write at least 400 words of this every day since the beginning of November.
> 
> I've also been dabbling in writing fanfic, but we'll see if that goes anywhere. ^^;;
> 
> This chapter focuses on a character I wrote about in the first part of this series. It's not essential to read that story to enjoy this, but what is discussed in this scene might make a little more sense.

The low hum of an old TV was a sound Samuel found comforting. As a child he had one in his bedroom, the kind that could smash someone's skull like a watermelon if it dropped on them. When his stepfather was yelling at him, as he always was, Samuel could retreat to the sanctuary of his room, slip under the covers, and slowly be serenaded to sleep by the the monotone, unwavering lullaby of the TV's standby mode. Nowadays his stepfather had been long dead from drug overdose, but that didn't make the TV any less of a friend. Whether it be a restless, humid night, or a bitingly cold morning like it happened to be today, he always had the option to turn on his TV, and put the sound all the way down to zero so only that white noise remained. Regardless of whether he wanted to sleep or had work to do, it still comforted him. Calmed him.

With a vague regard the remote pointed at the screen and the TV switched on with a snap. The low hum began to waft through the stale, stagnant air of the apartment, making it seem a just a little less lonely. With a slow movement the remote was placed on the arm of his worn, leatherbound recliner, where he had slept the previous night (and had slept every other night during the entirety of his stay in this apartment). His bare feet pattered along the freezing hardwood, the dry, cold surface pricking shards of cold into his soles of his feet as if walking on frozen thorns. He really had to buy a pair of slippers.

Six years ago, Samuel Randall gained international recognition among those who worshipped the Dark Goddess of Insanity as being the first and only known person to be able to summon her. It was a giant win for his branch of worshippers, the Votaries of the Marigold, as it showed the world that a pathetic man like him could get in touch with her but those lousy vermin at the Order of the Obelisk couldn't despite their best efforts.

He reached over to his radiator, the back of his hand patting its side as if he were lightly backhand slapping a horse. Off. It was nearly as cold as the floor, the rusting metal absent of any heat. It was a relief in a sense: at least he wouldn't have to pay for having heating on all night. Each year as the cold months closed in he wished he weren't human and instead some kind of fire elemental, so at least he would never have to worry about keeping warm.

Despite how much they pleaded, Samuel never told even his closest friends nor colleagues within the religion what the goddess looked like. He often brushed off the question, telling them that her appearance was so incomprehensible that he couldn't put it into words if he tried, and then quickly changed the subject by asking them out to brunch or inquiring about how their dog was doing since its surgery last month.

The thermostat sat oddly high up on the wall near the front door. Slowly, he cranked the dial, counting the ticks until it got to an acceptable temperature. It took significant willpower to move his arms out of the wrapped position around his torso, where they would be warmest, but he knew it was what had to be done. Perhaps he would buy a warm dressing gown when he went to buy his slippers, or at least a long sleeved pullover.

The truth was, the Dark Goddess of Insanity - more informally known as the Mother of Madness - looked human. He had read scrawled writings in disintegrating diaries from time immemorial claiming that (bearing in mind that although she was born a goddess, she only realised her true powers upon her death,) upon her ascension as a god she kept her human appearance, but they were largely regarded as false. His peers had suspected they were just a philosopher's way of trying to comprehend her physical form - after all, the elder goddess of insanity appearing as anything a human could wrap their head around was practically blasphemous - and to be taken as a grain of salt. But that must've been a huge grain of salt, because she matched the descriptions.

His fridge was the next spot to hit. With the faulty inner light blinking hello it revealed it was remarkably well stocked; not exactly brimming with food, but a larger range than usual. He pulled a large bottle of orange juice from the fridge door, reading that it had expired three days ago. He wasn't really one for orange juice, but he didn't want to waste it, and it didn't smell bad, so he poured a mug of it nonetheless. What was the worst expired fruit juice could give him, anyway? Mild indigestion?

But her form wasn't what created that pit in his belly. What created the pit was that she was... Well, exquisite. I mean, he wasn't sure if he had expected anything less from his patron, but he hadn't exactly expected a beautiful humanoid woman, either. And she was truly, truly beautiful, inside and out. She easily had the most attractive face and body he had ever seen, by a long shot. But that was nothing compared to her personality. She had a laid-back demeanor, sure. But once he spoke to her, once he told her why he summoned her, he saw her true nature.

Locating a crumbling cork coaster, his mug was placed on his dining table. It was an old, sturdy thing, inherited from his mother. It had been graffitied by tiny hands decades ago, carving drawings with their butter knifes as they avoided eating their vegetables, or drawing pictures with new markers on the table's underside. It was lacerated with scars, but it was charming in its own way. It served its purpose as a table, at least.

The Mother of Madness was a lovely, maternal woman, who told him something no one had ever told him before. Words that when carried by her sweet, genuine voice, fixed that heart of his, a heart he had never realised had been shattered. Words he had never considered applied to him.

He pulled the single, uncomfortable wooden chair from under the table and sat to drink his juice. Although it squeaked feebly as he put his weight on it he trusted its support; it hadn't broken before and it better not now. His breakfast looked pathetic, but he wasn't really hungry yet. He'd wait for lunch; have a bigger meal then.

She told him he deserved to be happy. That the bitter barbs of doubt and self-loathing his stepfather had ingrained in his mind did not define him. That her magic wouldn't fix all his problems, not truly - but what would fix them was if he learned to love himself.

He took a sip of the orange juice: the cold of the liquid stung his teeth, but the flavour wasn't unpleasant. He would slowly gulp it down and get on with his life, he figured. Though he didn't have anything to do today. He didn't have anything to do yesterday, either, and he had no plans for tomorrow. A quick glance at the clock told him it was just past seven - today was going to be a long day, he thought.

Since that fated night 6 years ago, Samuel remade himself. He went to therapy for as long as he could afford to and took up meditation and mindfulness. He made sure to not apologise for every little thing he did; he taught himself not to feel like a waste of space; he reassured himself that someone out there cared for him. Even if that person had only met him once.

As he sat in that cold, dusty, stale apartment, staring into his juice, his emotions and desires ate away at him. The Mother of Madness' support for him brought him out of his depression and raised his faith in himself, but it hadn't exactly brought him nirvana. You can only get so much mileage out of a ten minute meeting six years ago, regardless of who it was with. He felt greedy admitting it, but... He was lonely. He wished someone would talk to him. It didn't have to be her - it could be a fellow member of the Votaries, just calling him to catch up. But his summoning of her had risen his peers' impression of him, and now he was... Untouchable. No one had the courage to speak with him casually anymore, but he didn't have the courage to turn around and speak with them either.

_Knock knock. Knock._

Three heavy, hollow thuds hit the door. Samuel wasn't expecting a package or anything, nevermind a visitor, so his rise from his chair was apprehensive. As he waddled to the door in his tattered grey pajamas, he prayed it wasn't an impromptu visit from his landlord. They surely wouldn't be cruel enough to visit this early, he asked himself, looking for assurance.

Scratching his scraggly ashy brown beard, he opened the creaking door. A peculiar woman was on the other side: as she wore shapeless, baggy clothing it was hard to judge her size, but she seemed rather slim. Her hair was a mess, the color of oak and hastily packed into a military green cap. It was impossible to judge the length. Her bangs were mostly straight, but just as ratty as the rest of her hair, and laid clumsily on the top frame of her dark sunglasses. The tint was so strong, he couldn't see if she even had eyes, let alone the color.

"Samuel Randall?" The girl said, wearing a wide and sweet service smile. Her accent was from up north - Maine, maybe? It sounded very familiar, but he just couldn't recall her.

"Um, yes, that's me." His face was one of confusion, a mixture of his lingering sleepy lightheadedness and his vague memory of the woman before him.

She reached into her messenger bag - the straps were too short, and the bag was the same color as her hat. It looked packed, but the girl found what she wanted instantly and pulled it out effortlessly.

"For you." She said, holding out a letter. It was plain. Very plain, he remarked upon accepting it.

"It... Doesn't have an address. Are you certain it's for me?" This girl was getting weirder.

"I am." She replied, no hint of any emotion other than artificial joy. "Have a nice day!"

Abruptly she left and strolled off down the corridor of his floor of the apartment block, but went the wrong way: a direction that led to a dead end. He watched, waiting for her to turn around and come back, perhaps a little embarrassed. But she didn't. She turned a corner Samuel was certain didn't exist (or at least wasn't there before), and never came back.

Bizarre. Samuel shut his door, truly perplexed. Weirder things had happened in Gallow's Creek, he figured, but then there was also the letter. The item was completely bare: a simple white envelope, not only devoid of recipient or sender information, but also any stamps, or even a single crease in the paper of the package. A small voice in his mind wondered if the only fingerprints one would find on the envelope would be his own. Was that girl even real? Was he dreaming?

He sat back down at that old dining table, pushing the juice to one side. As neatly as possible (which wasn't that neat), he prised open the envelope with his fingers, finding a meticulously folded piece of paper inside. Just from peering inside he could tell it was as pristine as it's wrapping, making Samuel hesitate. Something about it felt... Not inhuman, but... Otherworldly.

Slipping the letter from the envelope, he opened it: "My dearest Samuel," it began.

Samuel jerked back instinctively, as if sucker punched. The whiplash rocked him, and as he massaged his now sore lower back his breathing quickened. Admittedly it was a bit of an overreaction however he wasn't aware of anyone who would write to him so... delicately. He had never found himself a girlfriend in all his fifty-four years (or a boyfriend, for that matter); he had always been too devoted to the Votaries of the Marigold. This could easily be a scam letter, forged by that odd messenger girl to look like the words of an old lover he never had. But something behind the beautiful penmanship of even just the first line felt so, so real. He had to read onwards.

"I'm sorry to intrude, but I'm afraid I have a desperate favour to ask of you. I've been trying to hold off as long as possible, but I'm afraid I cannot do this by myself any longer." Though the writing showed the clear composure of the writer, the desperation seeped from the words into his soul. Was this an ally from the Votaries? There were a number he knew long ago who hadn't yet returned pilgrimages they set out on. Perhaps they were in a tight space, and needed supplies?

"I'm sure you are aware of the chaotic nature of your cousins at the Order of the Obelisk." His _cousins?!_ The notion made him angry - they were xenophobic _fakers_ , intent on destroying the name of their good goddess. He would never consider them part of any family of his in a thousand years, regardless of the god they worshipped. The idea that this letter was sent from an old ally was already fading.

"Their ideologies are misguided, and their methods are vile. I understand it is in the name of worship, but their newest plan is unforgivable, and there are lines that must be drawn."

What? Newest plan? Samuel repositioned himself in that uncomfortable chair and sat rigid, gripping the letter. This could only be known by someone involved - was this coming from someone on the inside who wanted out?

The letter's intensity didn't slow down: "Their branch at Gallow's Creek has created a demon, and has been brainwashing it into serving them gladly. They plan on releasing it tonight on unsuspecting townsfolk. Similarly, one of their Elders, an Adam Lamb, is exiting the monastery tonight with a small number of disciples, all with the intention of slaying a number of the more powerful monsters in the town."

Samuel's stomach sank, his eyes widened. He couldn't fathom how they had gotten a monster on their side; the concept was founded on illogical thinking. He had, however, heard of Adam Lamb, a goliath of a man who once had a fistfight with a Stone Golem double his size and won, proceeding to take the Golem's master's head as a trophy. Needless to say, he was brutal, merciless, and worst of all: experienced.

Wait a minute - the Obelisk had a branch in Gallow's Creek? This small town? Under his nose?

"I'm sure you're aware of the werewolf massacre that took place this past month." Oh god. _Oh god oh god oh god._ "I'm regretful in informing you that the Order of the Obelisk were behind that too. Their intentions are unclear, but it seems the attack was merely carried out for sport."

Samuel was quaking with rage at this point. How the hell could those infidels have the gall to call themselves worshippers of the Mother of Madness?! The sheer lack of compassion they held blew his mind: to kill monsters because they "stood in your way" is one thing, but to do it for _sport?_ For _leisure?!_ Samuel - a self-proclaimed pacifist - felt like ripping their throats out with his teeth.

"I don't wish to see another massacre take place tonight, especially when it could be so easily stopped. Their monastery is located in an old bunker that branches out beneath the town." They... They were hiding in plain sight? How could anyone have missed that? This message was throwing his emotions around like a rollercoaster that failed its safety checks but operated anyway.

"I don't expect you to take care of it yourself - instead, I implore to take the information I have just given you to the Gallow's Creek police department. I have faith the chief of police will take it seriously." Samuel had never seen the police chief, but he had stories about the capability of the force they employed. He was willing to oblige to this mysterious comrade's request.

The message entered its final throes: "I apologise for the out-of-the-blue appearance, but I fear there's no one else I feel I can turn to without lasting consequences." Samuel's heart panged. He was someone's closest confidant? The only person they could trust? He... He wasn't quite sure how to take that.

"My eternal gratitude," they signed off.

"Your Patron," wait.

"The Elder Dark Goddess of Insanity," hold on.

"The Mother of Madness."

...What?

He sat at that old dining table, frozen, the whole room silent save for that low hum of the TV. And as he sat, his mind spinning around like it was caught in a blender, a moment of clarity appeared in the murk: the messenger's voice. He remembered it. He remembered it from six years ago.

Today was going to be an interesting day.


	4. October 30th, 7:30AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remarkably, writing fanfic seems to have spurred me on to write more of this. My mentality has been "well, if I finish two chapters of this then I'll write more JoJo", and somehow I haven't burnt out yet? I'm hoping to ride this wave of motivation at least for a little while longer.

Sophie wasn't good at waking up. She enjoyed being dynamic, and usually had a good deal of energy, but the whole 'becoming upright and conscious' part of it was where she usually slipped up. The problem was that beds are comfortable. Really comfortable. And as the mornings grow colder who the heck wants to get out from between a sandwich of fluff and springs? Not her.

Her roommate had already dealt with enough grief, though, and made sure to set her alarms. Blaring alarms, that screamed at her from the opposite corner of the room. Its red eyes flashed an ungodly time, but it continued its wailing nonetheless. How kind.

Sophie slumped out of bed like a slug hugging a garden wall, her bedclothes riding up as she committed to the slow tumble to the floor. The guilt of betrayal swamped her body for she couldn't help but feel like she was cheating on her perfect spouse for a cruel mistress. The mistress in question being... The clock? Or the general concept of being awake and moving? It was too early for metaphors, dammit.

A series of thuds berated her bedroom door: "Turn off your damn alarm!"

"Ah," Sophie drawled, voice hoarse from sleeping with her mouth open, "good morning, Alabaster."

Silence the alarm.

Take a breath.

Rub your eyes.

Try not to fall asleep on the carpet.

Sophie rooted around in her drawers, settling on something warm to wear. Burgundy nightwear was swapped for a khaki mauve dress and wool tights; paired with an oversized knit cardigan and matching hat. Pulling your arms through something so plush always felt so divine, and the urge to crawl back into bed was replaced the the desire to merely just curl up on the floor. 

"No, no no, you've made it this far," were words that she rattled around her skull, as if she were bouncing the words like a ball against a brick wall. Standing in front of her roommate's full length mirror she spun a lopsided pirouette, watching the skirt splay. There was always something so satisfying about watching the fabric ripple and even itself out into a flat cone. Her fingers played with the uneven ends of her hair; she kinda wished she could see her hair moving in time with her movement, mimicking her clothes (it'd be valid penance for all the times it slapped her across the face when she came to stop). She could always dump paint or flour over her head, but it was probably more trouble than it was worth. Such was the life of an invisible girl.

Sophie didn't really have any powers except not being able to be seen, and even then it wasn't particularly impressive. She couldn't turn anything else invisible, nor could she toggle her own invisibility. She had grown out of trying to get the world to accommodate for the full extent of her potential and instead worked to be comfortably slotted into working in the visible world - starting with wearing a hat at pretty much all times, so nothing ever whacked her in the head. And even though no one, even herself, knew what she looked like, she had too much of a presence to ever be stealthy or unrecognised.

Truth be told, she felt a little like a fraud. She shared the school dormitory with around twenty other peers, and all of them seemed significantly more... Monster-like? There was no reason to think she was going to be anything other than human up until the moment of her birth, where the doctors had a bit of trouble finding the baby. Sophie snickered at the thought as she traipsed out of her room: _that_ must've been a fun way to find out your wife was having an affair with an invisible man. Someday, she'd love to track down the man who was meant to be her father, a man who walked out of the maternity ward and never looked back, and have a nice chat with him.

A few feet from the staircase to the main lounge area, a bedroom door was uncharacteristically wide open. An invitation to be nosy? No one in their right mind wouldn't take it.

"Morning, Alabaster." Sophie repeated, popping her head in. He was a boy in the year above her, as well as in Sophie's homeroom: he was an average height but rather svelte, and Sophie could never decide if it was complimentary or contradictory to his sour, bitter personality.

Sat on his bed he looked at her with the total darkness of his eyes, a damp white towel over his head, perhaps left sagging in a poor attempt to dry his soy colored hair. Eventually he blinked, furthermore as he turned his head back to the laptop he was working at he let the towel slip down his neck to rest on his shoulders, his fluffy hair spiking in all directions. It was endearing - unfitting of such an asshole.

"Sophie. Sleep well?" His words were empty; he was far more focused on whatever task he was occupied with on the screen. Sophie muttered a similarly mild reply as she craned her neck, attempting to sneak her gaze around his body to spy whatever it was he was working on.

"Are you just going to loiter here all morning?" Alabaster sighed, and his eyes glanced at his ceiling as a sign of his already got-on nerves.

"Are _you_ just going to _sit_ here all morning? What, are you even going to eat?" Sophie asked absently, scrambling for a way to not back herself into a corner. Go her; that was a valid question.

"No," he said flatly, "I have an English assignment to finish."

"You have Miss Morgana, right?" Sophie asked. The idea that the oh so high and mighty Alabaster Steele had to scramble to complete his homework amused her.

"Since first year." Alabaster responded with a breathy sigh, tapping the backspace key with particular impatience.

"From what I've heard, Miss Morgana is pretty chill. I don't think she'll be angry if you're not done with some homework." Sophie rambled, considering her breakfast options in the back of her mind. She was really craving apricot jam.

"Very true." Alabaster reasoned. "But she'll be disappointed. I have a reputation with her I intend to uphold."

"Yeah," Sophie hummed, "and there's no one you want to disappoint more than someone you actually care about."

"Exactly."

"So, what's the homework on?"

" _The Haunting of Hill House._ Have you heard of it?"

"No, don't think so."

"It's not a bad book. Reminds me a lot of Gallow's Creek."

Sophie stood quietly, leaning against the wooden doorframe as she watched Alabaster's fingers dance. Scanning her eyes around the room (unsurprisingly tidy) she took a look at the window above his desk, and her reflection in it. Her collar was crooked, to her dismay: if her collar was crooked then the state of her hair must be unimaginable. Her only solace is that no one, herself included, would be able to tell.

"You really are just going to stand there, aren't you," Alabaster posed the comment as less of a question and more of a fact, partially groaning.

"No, I should be going," Sophie shook her head, "But are you sure you don't want to eat anything?"

"I'll be fine. Close the door behind you."

Time flew by and before either of them were ready it was eight-twenty: Alabaster had shot out the door, adjusting the straps of his messenger bag as he walked, and Sophie was left tying the shoelaces of her leather hiking boots in the sheltered porch of the grand house. Hiking boots were kind of extreme for the flat cityscape of Gallow's Creek, but she was given them by the person she was waiting for. She had already gotten plenty of use out of them, so she might as well get plenty more.

"You're late, Gorse." Her voice was pouty, but she still had a spring in her step when she saw his silhouette coming into view.

"We'll be fine." He muttered, rubbing his palm into his knotted red hair. His clothes were battered and his skin was rough and his hair was a mess and his demeanor was standoffish and he generally looked like he had been dragged through a hedge backwards... But he was still her friend.

The sky was grey this morning, and Sophie reckoned a high likelihood of rain. The path they took was scenic and short, passing a block or two of the main street and winding through the nearby dog park. A dense little woodland in the centre of Gallow's Creek with a myriad of paved paths running through it. It was popular and yet, due to it's lack of light and the seemingly shifting shapes behind the trees, was what Sophie personally thought was the most cursed area of the inner town.

The dog park was quiet today, save for the crunching of leaves under their feet. Gorse's steps were heavy and unrefined, mimicking his powerful nature. He wasn't cruel, like too many people could be, but instead a hardy and unwavering force. She had only seen him laugh once in a blue moon - he rarely even smiled - but to say he had a sour disposition was completely unfair. He simply wasn't one for meaningless niceties.

The air was damp, the nearby river letting off a cool breeze that persisted at wrapping its limbs around the countless tree trunks tickling their noses. It was somehow refreshing, yet claggy all the same. The leaf litter around them paired with that clinging air made for a fitting Halloween ambience. She'd have to make plans to hang out with Gorse tomorrow.

Then, like a security camera, his neck swivelled, him having noticed something. She stopped in her tracks, a few places in front of him.

"Is... Everything okay?" She muttered, and after a beat he relaxed. 

"I thought I felt something weird," he shook his head. "But it's nothing. Let's keep going."

Not entirely convinced, Sophie continued, wracking her brain for what could of set him off. He was a wereboar, so he had a killer sense of smell. For what it was worth, a new perfume could've been launched recently and he didn't like how the smell interfered with the generic scent of the town.

"Oh, there's Shirley." Sophie piped up, eyes across the street and her brain still on that last thought. About 50 paces to the right, a group of three girls were walking in a similar direction to them. She couldn't quite name one of them and had nowhere to start on the other, but Shirley was familiar.

"Grand." Gorse neglected to look over his shoulder to confirm Sophie's sighting.

"She's in your classes, right?" Sophie noticed Gorse put more power into his stride, forcing her to pick up her own.

"A few of them. Dee and Grimes are with her, right? They're always hanging out somewhere."

"Uhhh," Sophie peeked at them again, the pom pom of her hat lolling, "there's a girl with a wheelbarrow's full worth of hair-"

"Dee."

"-and a slime-"

"Grimes."

Sophie paused. "Isn't Grimes the name of some musician?"

Gorse caught his friend's gaze. "You expect me of all people to know?" 

"Fair." She shrugged. "Do you like them?"

"The musician or the girls?"

"The girls, duh."

He let out a low hum: "Dee has a respectable personality, but I've heard her family's got serious power; I get the impression she's had everything life handed to her on a silver platter. She's got the demeanor of a pro but the experience of a novice, if you get what I mean.

"Grimes is kinda annoying. She's lax and lazy and always wears the same damn facial expression - she doesn't get in my way, but she doesn't get out of it either. If she just sits in the corner doing nothing, I'll get the most out of our relationship."

"Oh, come on," Sophie nudged him with her elbow, "that's rude."

"You wanted my honest opinion, didn't you?" She couldn't refute that.

With a rough sigh he continued, gritting his teeth: "Shirley... I don't like Shirley."

"That's it?"

"Well, you know what she's like. She's in your homeroom, right?"

"Yeah, but I don't dislike her. She's kind of unnerving sometimes, but-"

"See, that's the thing. If she were just hard to read it'd be fine, but then she turns around and reads everyone like a travel pamphlet she found on display in a public bathroom."

"Why would pamphlets be on display in bathrooms?"

"Y'know, like at highway rest stops - wait, this isn't my point. You know what I mean. She's always... Judging you. Scrutinising you. And she always has to be in control of the situation." Gorse shuddered at the word 'control'. "She'll go to pry an answer out of you as she wears that saccharine smile, just to reveal she had already come to that same conclusion before the conversation even started. That's what I hate about her."

Sophie nodded, taking it all in. "Wait a minute, when did you learn the word 'scrutinising'? Or 'saccharine'?"

This time it was Gorse's turn to whack her: a heavy slap across the back. "I take English," he grunted, "have a little trust in me".

Sophie giggled. "I think you're just passionate about things you don't like."

"No surprise there," he hissed through his teeth, but a slight, crooked smile was present. "But really though, if the words 'I dunno' came out of her mouth one day I'd either cry with joy or have a heart attack from the shock."

Sophie pondered on her friend's opinions. "Say, do you have Alabaster in any of your classes?"

"English and Gym. Prissy bitch."

"So, do you have an English assignment for today?"

Gorse flinched: "Don't remind me."

"What kind of answer is that? If you had homework, you should've done it!"

"I know, I know, lay off already."

"You're a disaster."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know Gorse is a flowering shrub? It grew in the backyard of a cottage I rented many Octobers ago, and it felt kinda right to name our little wereboar that. Fun fact, I guess?


	5. October 30th, 7:30AM, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to upload this yesterday, but I got a huge migraine. It lasted over 6 hours and I didn't get a word written.
> 
> But perhaps it was fate - today it Dee's birthday, and this chapter is all about her!
> 
> ...Okay, maybe not _completely_ about her, but she has a big role!

_"I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go."_

Now that was a lyric Dee resonated with. She understood the song was about a dead person, but that didn't stop her from connecting it to her own very-alive situation. Since she was young she knew that before she had even been born, she had been set up for greatness - set to inherit a definitely illegal crime syndicate that her family had run for generations. Her mother never quite had the demeanor or drive required for the position and she had known it for years. But if she didn't want it all to collapse then she needed an heir in her place; Dee had to usurp her grandmother as the boss when the time came.

When that time was, exactly, was the iffy part.

There was very little chance the current boss would die unexpectedly - from illness or attack alike, she seemed impervious. Additionally, though everyone seemed to place a lot of faith in Dee, it wasn't like anyone was eager to pass down such a fine tuned system to child just for them to screw it up. Yet even so, at any moment she had to be ready to grasp the metaphorical baton in her career's relay race and run with it like her life was on the line.

So here she walked the sidewalk of the small seaside town of Gallow's Creek: all dressed up with nowhere to go.

The inner section of the town was pretty inviting, and the outskirts were beautiful despite their danger, but the ring in the middle where the suburbs met the urban areas were unnerving. The buildings rarely ever followed a consistent height; it was hard to tell what anything was from its exterior alone; pipes laid bare and paint peeled from walls as if everyone had gotten used to the stagnant air of apathy. And the alleys were thin, snaking like the trail of an unknown creature, no thought put into giving you a hint of what was at the other end. Dee was glad she lived in the suburbs.

She ducked under a drainpipe that zigzagged across the wall, stepping into the shallow porch space adjacent and a few inches below the alley pathway. One could say the nook was almost cozy. Turning the metallic red door led into an open plan apartment; the living room, dining room, and kitchen all being presented as one room upon entrance. A tall woman with cherry red hair looked up from her mug immediately, sharp eyes watching Dee through cat's eye frames. Upon recognising her the two shared a nod, and like a soldier who received an order from their commander she tilted her head to a door in the back:

"Shirley!" The woman called out, voice firm, "Dee's here!"

With a little pang of awkwardness Dee snuck her headphones off her head, into her bag and sat down on the red leather loveseat adjacent to the counter where Shirley's mother stood. Three of the walls of the room were wooden panelling painted black, while the final was white tiling that greeted you on the right when you walked in. It was surprisingly classy for its location: if someone told you you'd find a succubus' den out here, you might've guessed it'd be like a brothel, not a neat middle class home.

"Thanks, Ms Edwards," Dee nodded again, courteous, and the recipient acknowledged. Ms Edwards was tall with perfect posture (awareness of this made Dee straighten her back and cross one leg over the other), her long hair having the slightest curl. She already had her shoes on and her coat was on a cherry wood stand nearby: Dee wondered how soon she was going to head out the door.

Soon enough, a girl the spitting image of Ms Edwards flounced out of the room: Shirley. She was slighter than her mother, with more almond shaped eyes that lacked glasses, although possessing tied back hair harbouring more considerable curls. Behind her, a dark grey slime trudged close behind, an eye-searing white and yellow hoodie thrown over her form with a matching dad cap. The latter joined Dee on the sofa opposite while Shirley perused the kitchen around her mother, netting an apple pastry of some kind from the counter and pouring water into a kettle.

"Why _the hell_ does Robin think I date Ron?" Dee greeted, annoyance present but her voice devoid of anger.

"Good morning. And I mean, you did once." Shirley replied.

"I pretended to date him because he was in trouble and I owed him a favour," Dee countered. 

"Thus you admit," Shirley took a delicate bite of her breakfast, "you went on a date with him. In other words, you dated him."

"Well, yeah - so he wouldn't get the shit kicked out of him," Dee raised her arm and regarded her fellow couchmate, "Grimes was there too!"

"I was in fact there," Grimes hummed.

"So what? So Grimes can also testify you dated him?"

"I-" Dee struggled with her words, the others in the room growing slightly amused. "I'm not denying I went on a date with him. What I want to know is why Robin registered this as us actually dating."

Shirley shrugged, "I was talking with him the other day and mentioned you two went on a date. Anything else sprouted from his own assumptions."

Goddamn that hopeless romantic. "And _why_ does he know that dumb pet name he called me?"

Shirley winced: "Sorry. I forgot I told him that, too."

Dee groaned. "If I had had the energy when I saw him earlier this morning to correct him I would've, but turning the tables and prying into his own life was just easier. I'll make a pitstop at the Rosebud on the way home to clear it all up."

"No, you won't," Ms Edwards interjected, "if you're going to spout rumours without clarification, Shirley, then it's your responsibility to clear them up." 

"Fine, okay, I'll give him a talk," she rolled her shoulders, and a large grin appeared on her face as she poured her tea, "but what do you mean, _'prying into his own life'_?"

"Oh, right, yeah, he's finally at breaking point with his feelings for Anton," Dee snickered as she rolled the little remainder of her drink around in her cup, "I mentioned he was coming by and he basically pissed himself."

"Aw, poor little green man. Are you sure I can't just slip him a love potion for confidence?" Shirley cooed.

"No." Ms Edwards answered immediately.

"I mean, it-" Grimes began, but Dee quickly shot her down by slapping a hand on the coffee table.

"Can we stop talking about love? You keep talking about this and we're not gonna pass the Bechdel test." Dee sighed with a long draw of her straw, and Ms Edwards broke out laughing.

"Oh, I should get going." Ms Edwards chuckled, with all eyes on her as she moved to grab her coat, "make sure you all leave in time for school."

Grimes sat up as she walked out the door, punching a fist upwards: "Knock 'em dead, Avery!"

"It still unnerves me that you're on such a casual first name basis with my mom." Shirley commented, watching the door shut.

"Well, what else would I call her? Ms Edwards?" Dee felt herself tense with Grimes' comment, "That's way too formal, she's basically my mom at this point too."

"Then why don't you just call her mom?" Dee asked.

"Well, that's just unfair to your mom," Grimes assumed a sturdier pose on the couch, her expression hardened as if she were laying down irrefutable fact, "she's pretty much also my mom. And I can't call them both mom; that's confusing. Your mom is Shannon and your mom is Avery and that's all that matters."

"Alright, alright, Grimes' responding in more than one sentence, it's time to go." Dee wrapped up the chit chat and stood up from the couch, "pack your things and let's roll, Shirl."

"Fine, fine." she responded, sauntering off to go collect what she required. Grimes turned her head up to Dee, bearing a faint smile: "What's so wrong about me engaging in a conversation?"

"The mere idea you have the capacity for intelligent conversation," Dee stared at her, eyes dark and expression deadpan, "shakes me to my very core," 

  
*

  
Dee grit her teeth as she stepped out of the house. Something didn't sit right.

Shirley. Shirley was going to sort out her mess, and only because Avery had the initiative to tell her - no, order her to. But it didn't matter that Shirley started it, it was still Dee's problem. She should've clarified Robin's mistake when it first cropped up. What good was she if she couldn't smooth out any wrinkles the moment she had the opportunity to? Why did she leave that problem just lying there, festering, no different than an infected wound? She could almost picture the unimpressed faces of her grandmother's retainers, or the cringing chuckle in her mother's voice when she eventually vented to her. No leader lets rumours spread about them, nevermind doesn't do anything to put a stop to them. _"What the fuck are you doing, girl? How much can you ever achieve if you don't have the simply bravery to correct people's wrongs? What else don't you have the bravery to do?"_

God, she had wished she had done something this morning. Taking steps was easy; standing still is hard.

"You have time," Shirley said as she snapped Dee back to reality. The latter raised an eyebrow, and the former continued as she locked her front door: "You seem torn about something. I'm sure you have time to deal with it."

Dee scoffed, "You know me too well."

"She knows everyone too well." Grimes cupped her hands around her mouth, the gel of her face seeping into them, "Creep!"

"Hush, mulch eater." Shirley retorted.

"Hey, my diet consisting of nothing but mulch is nothing for you to berate me about."

"Please," Shirley looked her in the eye, arms crossed as she walked, "I shouldn't have to be in the middle of a test and hear the scrapes and slaps of mulch sliding out of a bag - an industrial sized bag that you buy from goddamn hardware store -"

"Hey, it's cost effective."

"- and into your mouth."

"C'mon, that's never happened."

"Yes, it has! Last week! Second period! I was translating, no, trying to translate a paragraph about where I lived for question four, but all I could focus on was the sound of mulch! Mulch, for Christ's sake, in the middle of the work for a graded piece! Just the sounds of -"

"If you say mulch one more time I'm going to throttle you here and now." Dee sighed, nearly as exasperated as her friend. Grimes cackled. 

The world was quiet this morning. The sky was mottled with heavy clouds, traveling slowly by while pushed by the grey wind. The birds had fallen silent, but the scarlet and apricot leaves underfoot were far from it. Despite the dark color of the sky rain didn't seem imminent (at least Dee hoped), which was definitely for the better - a misplaced step could turn a slick leaf into a death trap. Meanwhile, geese screamed overhead, flying into formation with furious wingbeats: the sight giving Dee an odd, warm sense of nostalgia.

"Oh, right!" Shirley clapped her hands together, "It's Halloween tomorrow! Will you both be wearing the usual?"

"Ha!" Dee replied instantly, "No way. If it were gonna be warm like last time maybe, but apparently there's meant to be strong winds this year."

"Coward." Shirley sighed, her tone playful.

"Hey, c'mon. Salancrotal clothing is all silky shirts and swishy skirts-"

"Hey, accidental alliteration!" Grimes chimed in (and was promptly ignored).

"-and I'll be _way_ too cold. I'll probably wear one of my grandma's old suits; turn it into a careers day type thing."

"Again, you're a coward."

"Shut it, cupid. At least succubi are used to wearing light clothing in baltic conditions. My family comes from the equator, so cut me some slack!"

"Hmm, I'm only hearing excuses over here."

"I'll ram those excuses up your ass if you're not careful."

"Shaddup, both of you," Grimes drawled, "Can't believe neither of you care what I'll be wearing."

"I care," Shirley piped up.

"You're just gonna be naked again, aren't you?" Dee raised an eyebrow. The question was rhetorical, and they both knew it.

"Ohhhh yeah. Being a slime is great." She stretched her arms behind her head, the forearms unnaturally long, "nothing like being a misshapen grey blob on the floor; that's what I've always said."

She chuckled: "Truly an inspiration to us all."

"Are those Gorse and Sophie?" Shirley mentioned, eyes across the street, "Random interruption, I know."

"The guy's definitely Gorse - haven't seen him in a while," Dee squinted her eyes.

"He's in my home ec," Grimes added on.

"I see him daily," Shirley nodded, satisfied with her friends' confirmation.

"What's he like?" Dee inquired, crossing the street and passing the other party.

"I... Tolerable."

"Oh boy."

"Well, I mean, he's headstrong, but horribly stubborn." She sighed softly, likely recalling some cringeworthy ordeal, "There's holding your ground, but then there's just not listening to reason."

"So he's a pain in the ass? Real stick in the mud?"

"Absolutely."

"What's the girl like?" Grimes asked.

"Sophie? Much nicer. Meeker. She's in my homeroom." Shirley paused, "I think she's scared of me."

"To be fair, most people are." Dee shrugged, and Grimes nodded.

"No, they're not!" She pouted: "I merely _unnerve_ them; there's a difference."

Dee laughed, the sound boisterous: "I hope you take pride in that!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to see what Dee, Shirley, and Grimes look like, click [here.](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1791178)
> 
> See you next chapter!


	6. October 30th, 9AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've run out of drafts to call from, so chapters might be uploaded with bigger gaps between them again.

The energy inside the Order of the Obelisk's walls was enough to fry a person. As you walked through the first chamber of the monastery you could practically feel the excitement bouncing off the walls, in the form of eager words spoken without end by the Obelisk's lovely disciples. The disciples never spoke this much (meaningless chatter could be counterintuitive to their initiation) but who could blame them? It was finally going to happen. It was going to happen tonight.

After consulting with Abraham and Adam, she figured a small team of people were enough. Enough to make the impact they wanted, enough for the Obelisk to make their first mark upon Gallow's Creek. It was the decider: how would the main event tomorrow go down? Would taking out the higher ups placed in the little society above ground be enough for the remaining monsters to submit to them; to forfeit their lives? Or would it be first blood in a pointless war, one the Obelisk would win with ease. They had been so, so protective of their plans that the only way anyone on the surface could have any idea of what was to unfold this Halloween night was through the means of a higher power. 

She had, however, become aware that the inhabitants had noticed something was happening in the dog park, even if they weren't necessarily certain it was the Obelisk. This had been discovered after noticing an increase of monsters loitering around the entrance to the monastery. Was this a new meet-up spot, or had someone noticed something? Regardless, nothing to be concerned about, of course. It was nothing they couldn't handle.

"Elder Mona! Elder Mona!" Disciples rang out with joy upon noticing her appearance in the room. They swarmed her like ants to a picnic basket.

"Hello, my children." Mona said sweetly, patting them on the head. They were like puppies, she thought, but larger and not as smelly.

"Are you excited, Elder Mona?" One asked cheerfully.

"Of course she is, you imbecile!" Another responded for her. She sighed.

"We're all excited for tonight, myself included." Mona said in a sweet, hushed voice. "But we have to make sure we don't get ahead of ourselves. Celebrations can always come later, so for now we must stay focused."

They all nodded enthusiastically, a flurry of black and bright red. They parted for her as she paraded through the crowd that had formed in the hall, some of the disciples waving at her as she went. It was hard to not be vain when surrounded by this adoration, but Mona reminded herself that this was just one of the many trials she must overcome to prove herself to the Mother of Madness. She must work harder to make sure these children directed their love to their goddess, not to her.

Once the hall was cleared and she was in one of the monastery's many corridors the silence came so fast it was almost deafening. However, Mona never found silence unpleasant: it brought a moment of tranquility, perfect for praying to her goddess.

"Oh, my dearest goddess of insanity, the deity who holds the fabric of reality together," she said softly, traversing the dark passageway, "please notice our efforts tonight. Please notice your children laying their lives on the line tonight in your name."

(She thought about adding _"Please appear to us in acknowlegement of our efforts"_ but thought that was much too selfish, and scolded herself for the idea).

Along the path she passed one of the monasteries many great halls. Elder Adam stood inside, overseeing the disciples' last preparations. The best of the best stood in that room, about thirty five in total, and lifetimes of worship between them. Though the room's size dwarved them, Mona knew that was plenty needed to carry out their plans. Those disciples were so well-trained they could take someone out - monster or otherwise - with little more than a flick of their wrist. But as much as she wanted to stand there watching them she knew that wasn't why she was here. She was here to oversee her own work. With power in her walk she strided past the hall, down the last remaining turns of this particular corridor, and pushed open the double doors of her office.

It was a tall room, the floor so regularly polished that without care it was easy to slip (so many of the young new disciples who came to visit her did). Red banners bearing the shape of the Obelisk in a charcoal black lined the walls, a lone desk placed in the centre. There were new files on it: the majority were status reports from Adam, along with some queries from smaller monasteries around the country as well as a note from Abby asking if she wanted him to pick her up some lunch. None were pressing, however, and that was all that concerned her. She threw them back down on the desk and approached a banner in the back of the room, placing both hands on the wall behind it. It was icy cold, even through her gloves. But she didn't have to touch it for long, swiftly locating the lone chink in the meticulous smoothness of the surface. A small tap of it, and the wall opened up in front of her, revealing a wide set of stairs, leading into darkness.

With her first step down it a set of automatic lights switched on, a blinding white emanating from downward facing white electric lamps. By the third step the door had closed behind her, fitting into the wall so perfectly you couldn't have known it was there if not told. Unlike anywhere else in their underground sanctuary, floor here was dusty; so dusty that her steps kicked it into the air, like fungal particles floating on the breeze of an apocalyptic world of science fiction. None of the disciples had been told about this place, so naturally they couldn't clean it. This didn't bother Mona. The creatures down here didn't deserve a clean environment. Of course, _creatures_ was the nicest word one could use, she thought as she reached the bottom. Her presence switched the overhead lights on, revealing cell after cell of beings, hissing as their eyes - if they had any - adjusted. The cells were no bigger than a horse's stable, surrounded on three sides by reinforced steel and the last by narrowly spaced iron bars caked with a brick red; either rust or blood. Probably both.

The first creature to react was two cells forward, on the left. It clattered against the walls of its cage with a screech, a reaction that made Mona laugh. She reached into her boot to pull out a packet of rotten beef jerky, tossing a strip to the amusing being as a reward. It skated between the bars and landed solidly in its gargantuan mouth, obliterated in seconds by its three rows of teeth. The food she carried - if it could ever be called that - grabbed the attention of everything in the room, with them all throwing themselves at their bars with increasing intensity in a desperate attempt to grab her attention. They were all so hungry, she could feel that. Monstrosities like these didn't feel many emotions, but hunger was primal. And it was something she could control.

Four cells onwards to the right, another squeezed a jaundiced flesh colored limb (or perhaps a tentacle) out between the bars and shot it at her feet in an attempt to pull her towards it. She saw its pursuit, slamming down the heel of her boot. It screamed and thrashed and screamed some more before she was kind enough to raise her foot and let it go. It slowly retracted itself back through the bars, whimpering like a dog just kicked by its owner. The rest of them were a little more quiet after that. When Mona decided she was done playing with her pets - she and only she got decide what time that was - she slipped the jerky back into her boot and delved deeper into her torture chamber. At the end, about 10 metres away from the rest of the cells, was a large door with an elaborate combination lock at its centre. It was cracked with little more than muscle memory.

This room wasn't the steel of the rest of the cells but instead the dark, polished surface of the rest of the monastery. This cell had no bars: a window was built into a wall separating inmate from jailer, giving Mona full view of the creature inside. And my, my, what a creature it was.

When she had found the creature, it was little more than a moaning ball of black. Encyclopedias had identified it as an ink demon, a creature much like a mimic but much less impressive. But over the course of its containment it had done something interesting. It had shifted. It was no longer a blob of ink, but a humanoid creature mirroring her own image, capable of speech. Sure, it spoke like a parrot, but it could hold those thoughts and words for hours, sometimes days after those conversations, and if truly hammered in then those ideas could be permanent.

These findings brought a dangerous epiphany: if she could plant whatever thoughts she wanted into its head, could she condition a monster to inherently hate monsterkind?

"He... ll... ohhh." The ink demon spoke to her. Calling it " _the ink demon_ " objectified it, Mona thought, and she wanted it to become fully sentient as soon as possible. Thus, it had to have a name.

"Hello, Mona." Mona said to it, her hands on the ledge of the window. Other than to the creature itself it was referred to as "Other Mona", and regular Mona was called "Elder Mona" for simplicity's sake. Abby had proposed naming it Lisa, but it wasn't a pun Elder Mona had found funny.

"How are you feeling, Mona?" Elder Mona asked it in a sweet voice, crisp with clarity. Despite how unnerving it was she forced herself to look into the black cavities the Other Mona had as eyes. Her skin was was watery, shifting white, as if it were paper and those eyes were splotches of spilled black ink.

"Iammmm... okeeee..." Other Mona was trying desperately to compose herself to mirror Elder Mona's position, sitting up the best she could before she doubled under her weight and sunk again. Elder Mona had explained the purpose and function of the skeleton to her, and found the black ink was forming something similar under that white goo. It was massively improving her stability, so she considered giving her a recap.

"I'm glad." Elder Mona nodded with overexaggerated movements. Other Mona mimicked, producing a little tilt of the head before leaning back again. "What have you been up to?"

"I.... waaan.... eeiiiirrrr." Other Mona pointed a pale, crooked finger to her head as the words drawled. A mass of black ink lay on it, the same length and style as Elder Mona's hair, the only difference being Other Mona had her parting on the wrong side.

"It's beautiful. I can see you've worked very hard." She said this while running her fingers through her sleek, perfectly straightened white hair. A small part of her mind laughed thinking about how Other Mona's mop of black globules could be even compared to hair itself, nevermind her own. But her face was one of happiness, proud of her monochrome child, and the Other Mona let out a squee of delight at her reaction.

"Mona," she began, "do you remember want happens today?"

Other Mona oscillated where she sat, her malformed hands against her malformed head. It let out a low, groaning sound as it tried desperately to recall, stopping abruptly upon its apparent success. It turned its head up to face Elder Mona and though it had no mouth, that cytoplasmic white gel contorted as it spoke. God, it made Elder Mona's skin crawl.

"Isssss... Hawweeeeeenn..." It spoke with such happiness behind its voice. Elder Mona hadn't shown it joy of that degree, and the possibility of it being capable of such emotion on its own made her... Nervous. "Toaaaayyyy... You enn therr raaaaaiiiinnnnnn..."

"That's right. Tomorrow is Halloween, a holiday held dear by many monsters. So before the festivities can begin, today, the malicious reign of the monsters on the surface shall be ended, and anyone left behind will realise Gallow's Creek has always been meant for humans alone."

Other Mona squeed again. "Wiiiii... Wiiilll ehh beeee fffffuuunn...?"

Elder Mona cocked her head. "It will be tough. It will require skill, concentration, and determination... But the celebrations in the aftermath will certainly be fun."

Other Mona nodded, taking it all in. "Onsentraaaaashheeeenn..."

Elder Mona laughed. "I'm glad you're trying to expand your vocabulary. Let's talk again soon, okay?"

She left the Other Mona to repeat her unique take on the word " _concentration_ " as it sat alone in that dark room. If her experiments with the Other Mona worked, then maybe any monsters who evade the massacre could be captured and conditioned too. It certainly was an interesting idea... But a fantasy nonetheless. Right now, she had to keep her head planted in the reality of her situation. Her little pet would be premiering in Gallow's Creek tonight; although somewhat premature, her experiment was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're having trouble understanding Other Mona, I assure you her slurring gets better as the story goes on.


	7. October 30th, 1PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing full time education from home has been kicking my ass, but I wanted to write some more today. I've been looking forward to uploading this chapter: things finally start picking up from here.

"I'm just saying, that's why I think spaghetti should only be eaten with a spoon, or no utensils at all."

"And I think you should keep your batshit ideas far away from society, lest you invite more."

The library was warm that day; not muggy, but there was a dry heat warm enough for Dee to consider removing her coat. (she didn't, of course, what kind of person do you take her for?) The room was situated in the middle of the first floor, a large room with walls painted midnight purple, with a baseboard of brown tiles. The way the shelves wound was labyrinthine, and once daylight savings hit the radiators were always on full blast. Cozy, but once you were in the concept of getting lost in here and never leaving was a little too close for comfort.

Shirley was the only one brave enough to roam the shelves - and she had the courage to do it alone; godspeed. Dee and Grimes, on the other hand, sat at a table near the double doors of the library, eating slowly at their lunch as the latter raised ridiculous proposition after ridiculous proposition. The only other people in here were seniors, drifting around them like dandelion seeds, leaving them alone and wishing themselves to be unbothered.

"But I mean, you see people eating baguettes with a spoon, why not raw spaghetti?" Grimes offered, backing her point as the gel of her face absorbed a handful of mulch.

Dee ripped a bite from her sandwich: "Who the _fuck_ eats baguettes with a spoon?"

"You haven't seen someone eat a baguette with a spoon before? Damn, Dee, have you been living under a rock?"

"Show me one person, _one_ , who eats a baguette with a spoon and I'll do your homework for the rest of the year."

Across the room, Alabaster let out a particularly heavy sigh, gripping the staple gun in his hand. Last week he had offered up his lunch break to help Miss Morgana hang up a Halloween display about some of the creepier history in Gallow's Creek (created by one of the seniors; half the reason there were plenty of them milling around). Last week he was also confident he would have finished his essay by now. In truth he only managed to half finish it - His closer classmates constantly laughing at him over his shoulder certainly didn't help his chances of getting it done - and as he stood there, smoothing out any kinks in dark construction paper being attached to the wall, he recited under his breath what he had planned to write. He just had to finish up his volunteering for Miss Morgana and sneak off to the computer lab, and it would be prepared for his English class with her next period.

Last period, in chemistry, he has been horribly impatient. He turned the blue USB stick that contained the essay over in his hand. Over and over again. How he longed for it to magically print out on paper in front of him, so he could continue it discreetly as his teacher retaught information about fertilisers that they learned in first year that somehow no one remembered. Yes, we _know_ plants require nitrogen. Half the people sitting in this class take biology, for Christ's sake.

The clock then said twelve-fifty: now it read one-twenty. Good. He had plenty of time to finish up here and log onto a computer. Even if he were pressed for time, he would bet money that Miss Morgana would absolutely forgive him if he arrived in class late (he was usually so punctual), especially if he missed it for more important school work.

Don't worry, little essay. You'll be finished soon enough. And you'll have so much analysis of that damn story jam-packed into you that you'll even teach Miss Morgana a thing or two.

Hurk. His least favorite thing about this task was when he locked eyes with his teacher, which he did just now. Miss Morgana was tall, over six foot, and dressed in a black blouse with a flowing red skirt. It ran from her waist like a waterfall off of a cliff, dragging along the ground (she apparently was an Ubume, and the skirt length paired with her race made Alabaster skeptical of whether she even had legs). Her hair too was long; a dark soy color just cooler in undertones than his own, and much straighter. Her eyes were round and a pretty stormcloud grey, and they always made sure to match people's gaze when she spoke to them. She was polite and maternal, and even those who found her soft personality annoying couldn't deny she was someone they could put their trust into. For Alabaster personally, he hated how much he dropped his guard around her without even meaning to. She held no grudges, only raised her voice in a time of danger, and her default expression was of a melancholic kindness - her perfection as a person always defied Alabaster's own contempt for most he came across. Locking eyes with her, he was reminded of his work, and felt an uncharacteristic wave of guilt.

Only two sheets left. Alabaster was so close to the opportunity to finish his essay he could almost taste it, and what a satisfying taste it had. In his mind, he partially considered it already complete: everything he had to do was already laid out so perfectly in his head. There's no way he wouldn't be allowed to use the computer lab to work on the essay. There's no way he wouldn't get full marks from Miss Morgana.

Less than a minute left of work to go, tops. Alabaster's bag was packed and propped in the corner, the USB stick securely in the inner pocket of his tawny brown capelet coat, folded neatly beneath it. He was so close, just one more staple... 

But the intercom switched on, ruining his concentration. The voice of Miss Lawson, the principal's secretary, came through on the speakers loud and clear. In a firm tone she began listing off a series of numbers and letters. Maybe 12 of them, repeated twice, and the intercom crackled away just as quickly as it appeared. Everyone stood around, a little confused. What was Miss Lawson doing? Was that code; hexadecimal or something? And since when did the school have an intercom? What was going on?

Yet before anyone had a chance to speak Miss Morgana, in all her glory, clapped her hands together and got the attention of those in the library - even the puzzled librarian - immediately. Her brow line slightly furrowed in a telltale sign of concern, and Alabaster felt his stomach preemptively drop as she opened her mouth to make an announcement: 

"I need you all to not leave this room." Miss Morgana announced, her calm and friendly demeanor refusing to be dampened. Crap. This could not be happening, "There's something I need to go do. Even if the bell goes for the end of lunch, I can't let you leave this room until I return. When I leave, I'll lock the door behind me. You'll have to sit tight until I get back - I'm sorry this is all so sudden."

"Miss Morgana, what's going on?" A quieter peer who Alabaster didn't know (or really care for) the name or race of chirped up, a little worry in her voice. She had also found a home at the school lodgings, but somehow the two always managed to avoid each other.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you anything more than I already have. But please don't worry yourself over it - it's nothing for you to be concerned about right now. Staff business is all." Miss Morgana waved her hand delicately, desperately trying hard to keep the peace.

It was always hard to know, in Alabaster's opinion, whether her emotions were genuine. Yet something in the tone of the intercom's announcement meant he got a strong impression Miss Morgana wasn't pulling anybody's leg. Plus, the use of the words ' _right now'_ lightly scared him.

Another kid put their hand up: Grimes. Goddamn Grimes. He sat across the class from her in their languages class and Alabaster tried so hard to ignore her there that he had somehow managed to unconsciously forget about her presence entirely, "What if we need to use the bathroom?"

Miss Morgana blinked a few times. "I wasn't aware slimes passed waste?"

"Oh, we don't," she answered, "but for my friends that do but who are too embarrassed to ask: what do we do if we need the bathroom?"

Miss Morgana frowned a little, clearly taken aback by the question but she seemed like she genuinely was searching for an answer, "The most I can ask for is: please don't. I hope I won't take so long it'll become a problem."

"Wait, Miss Morgana." Alabaster blurted out as she began to move for the door. Reality was setting in, "I need a computer. To do the work I need to finish."

"Uhuh."

"...What should I do?"

Miss Morgana's shoulders dropped, "There's not a lot I can offer, I'm afraid. Next period, after we go over the homework, how about I let you up to the computer lab?"

Alabaster was left in a daze, and his teacher wasted no time leaving the classroom. Clutching the staple gun tightly in his grip he looked at her pathetically: it was his only defence. So much of him wanted for her to turn around and say sike, releasing him to his own devices. But all she did was wave him goodbye as she locked the library's double doors.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dee beckoned him over with a waving hand. She wasn't as bad as her friends, so why not attempt associating with her? He picked up his bag and coat and made his way over - Grimes may have been there, but he had nothing better to do.

"So, Bassy," she began in an innocent tone, "how's your homework going?"

"Fuck you."

"I _love_ this conversation!" She laughed, and Grimes smiled along, "Seriously though, you look like you're waiting for your execution. What's up?"

Had it not been for his compulsive need to keep his posture perfect, Alabaster might have slumped in his burgundy plastic seat. His mind and heart fought in a familiar war: his strong desire to keep himself elusive and not slip anything about his current problems was strong, but the logical conclusion of seeking out help instead of wallowing in failure was stronger. His pride was a horrible thing, but in the end he reasoned that being seen as weak momentarily by two of his classmates was better than earning the disappointment of an authority figure.

"I have an essay due next period, for Miss Morgana. I was gonna leave right now for the computer lab..." He let out an exasperated sigh, throwing his hands up like the drama queen he was, "Neither of you have a laptop on you, do you? I have barely two paragraphs left."

"For Miss Morgana? Ouch." Grimes commented, and Dee nodded along with a _"This is why I dropped English."_

"Shirley has her laptop in her bag." Dee offered, pointing to the pristine white bookbag on the seat next to her. She bit into a freshly unwrapped chocolate bar, clearly taking joy in watching Alabaster's sudden dilemma.

He needed that laptop. Asking Shirley's permission would not only waste time as he looked for her, but would require Alabaster's personal hell: sucking up to her. Sucking up to anyone was bad, but Shirley Edwards? Shirley Edwards was essentially his rival: a girl with his cunning, a girl who shared the same core moral of 'looking out for number one'. The only reason they didn't fight outright was out of some form of mutual respect. Plus, they were already so close in race - she a succubus and he an imp. The only difference is that she had more people in her pocket. Asking Shirley for a favour... It'd be like admitting she was better than him (which she was not). 

To top it off, she'd want something out of it. She'd never just be nice to someone. Was the word charity even in Shirley's dictionary? No, he would not humiliate himself, so asking permission was not an option. 

He side-eyed the two girls at the table. While they may have been Shirley's best friends they also seemed to be entirely too amused by his situation to tattle. He took a deep breath, "I'm going to use it - I'll just take it over there, so she doesn't spot me. Don't tell her."

"Sure thing, dude." Dee nodded, and indicated to the bag with a wave of a straw that was about to puncture a juice box. Apprehensively, Alabaster stood up and walked around the table, and undid the small buckles that held the bag closed. The inside, like with his own bag, had all its contents arranged via color coded folders (although her color choices were entirely wrong. In whose reality was English a _pink_ subject? It was obviously yellow).

Laptop. Right, the laptop. It was safely wedged in the middle of the main pocket in a black cloth case. He slid it out from its slot with a satisfying noise; almost as satisfied as he felt cradling it in his pale arms, finally at ease that he had something to continue his work on. His heart could finally slow from a million miles a minute to a mere ten thousand.

Nope, too soon to call: "Oh hi, Alabaster!"

Slowly, those dark eyes wide, his head ticked closer and closer to facing the direction of the sound. Shirley stood with a pile of books by the front checkout desk, waving at him. At the table he was aware Dee and Grimes were trying their hardest not to piss themselves with stifled laughter.

"Whatcha got there?" She beamed, innocuous, those cupid's wings he knew she hid easily mistaken for an angel's. Dee wheezed, and Alabaster just gripped the laptop tighter as his throat closed with a similar vice.

Today was never going to be an easy day, was it?

  
*

  
Miss Morgana strode down the hall silently, her hair bouncing against her back rhythmically. She escorted herself down the hallway and out into the cold staircase. Though she had faith in her students to not litter, she was still silently thankful it was clean - her worst fear was getting gum stuck to the hem of her dress, or god forbid something from the bannister wiping itself all over the sleeve of her blouse. She had already cleared a flight of stairs and reached the ground floor when she finally managed to push the sickening thoughts out of her mind, and found two of her colleagues traipsing the concourse the stairwell led to.

"Good afternoon gentlemen." She greeted cheerily, with a tinge of amusement. Her introduction was short: she didn't want to put an end to their conversation.

One of them was Mr Miramaris Craric, a feyfolk man that was always overflowing with a mischievousness and clinging friendliness that he thread through every corner of his music department. His hair was black and feathered, just barely kissing the shoulders of his white blouse, furthermore his skin was a watermelon pink that shimmered the same lime green as his eyes in the light. The man he was engaged in chatter with was Mr Felix Glass, the head of fashion tech and a joint head of home economics (along with the head of hospitality). He had a good three inches on Craric and coupled with his unimpressed expression, he seemed to loom over him - though the act wasn't intimidating, given Morgana still had height on both of them. 

"Why hello, _hello_ , Mayoi!" Craric greeted her casually. Their three departments were what was found on the ground floor (alongside the PE department), so they spent plenty of time in each other's company, "You've just come from the library, right?"

"Certainly have." She smiled as she smoothed out her skirt, increasing her pace to keep up with them.

"How did the kids up there deal with the announcement?"

"Fairly well." Morgana took the small victories as she inquired, "How about you two - you both were running clubs, right? Music practice and supported study?"

"I told them to sit tight and keep practicing," Craric shrugged with a smile, "and they seemed fine complying!"

"Not badly." Glass tacked on his own experience, fixing his white pencil tie as he walked. "It was primarily third years, so I figured whatever we're going to deal with they could handle anyway. They seemed a little ticked I couldn't tell them much, though."

"Well yeah, if I were in their position I know I'd be," Mr Craric reasoned, "but junior classes are never too hard to wrangle. They'll be fine."

"Did they ask any questions?" Morgana asked.

"Barely. They did ask where they should go to the bathroom, however. Not what I expected to be answering on a Thursday afternoon," Glass' expression soured.

"I see your class has their priorities straight!" Craric joked as, for some unknown reason, he felt compelled to start walking to their destination backwards. A few more lefts or so and they'd be where they needed to be. "How did you respond?"

"I gestured to the trash can and wished them luck." He shrugged, and with a grimacing chuckle: "God, there better not be something there when I get back."

"Better than my response; I simply asked them not to." Morgana offered, slightly embarrassed.

"Ugh, I should've just said _that_!" He smacked his forehead.

Even Morgana had to stifle a laugh, and Glass looked to the ceiling as if desperately pleading to a higher power. They almost pitied the vampiric man: Craric had been teaching here for over a decade, and Morgana that three times over. But Glass had been hired at the beginning of the year, and hadn't built the trust in the establishment to have faith something like that wouldn't happen. Hell, he hadn't even gone through a dress rehearsal of this drill.

The code that Miss Lawson had called correlated to a tier of lockdown the school had: usually, when there was something that could threaten the safety of the students. Teachers patrolled the school, while the heads of the departments - similarly, some of the strongest monsters not just in the school but in the town - held a meeting to discuss a game plan. While the three were joking around the atmosphere was still oppressive, the knowledge they could be imminently facing danger constantly lingering over their heads.

"I have to admit," Glass started, "I wouldn't be upset if whatever threat we're being called in for cancels school tomorrow."

"Really? I always took you as the type to enjoy Halloween!" Craric seemed taken aback.

"You have known me," he looked him dead in the eye, "for _less than three months_."

"Eh, I can just tell by looking at you." Craric smirked in that way he always did, matched with Morgana's amused smile, "There's a twinkle in your eyes."

"Why don't you want to come in?" Morgana asked before Glass could retort.

"The concept this town has of monsters of donning traditional racial dress is certainly interesting, but what on earth am I meant to wear?"

"That's an interesting question. What do you usually wear on Halloween?"

"Every day clothing," he shrugged, "I don't exactly celebrate it. It's just another day, but with significantly more pumpkins."

Craric gasped at him: "But-! _But-!_ You need to embrace tradition! Put on a lacy cloak or something, and make sure to show your fangs as often as possible- "

"I'm sure you'll be fine, Felix." Morgana cut him off before his imagination could run wild, "As for me, I get to dig out the robes I died in, which should be... Fun."

Glass looked back at her, almost sympathetic, as he opened the door to the staff corridor, "God, having to rehash bad memories each year; it makes my grievance look less than petty."

"It's not so bad after so many years."

Craric took the lead and rapped a bouncy rhythm on the door of Miss Lawson's office, taking a step back to be in line with his colleagues. The door was swiftly and silently answered, and the trio were ushered inside, as if attending a meeting meant for the secret service. Miss Lawson's office was always more spacious than Morgana remembered, but she felt the woman deserved it: Principal Rift was always cooped up in his own office, even at times like these, and the poor woman had to get everything done for him. To top it off, she had outstanding fashion sense, everything she wore making her look stunning (a drunken Craric once came close to tears over how he wished he had a wardrobe as great as hers).

Miss Lawson delicately tapped a ballpoint pen against the shell of an open binder, reading over some sort of paper kept inside. Morgana assumed this was a formality: there's no doubt she'd already read whatever information it contained countless times, merely pretending to be engrossed in it to the colleagues she had summoned as they positioned themselves around the room. There hadn't been a full staff meeting in Lawson's office in around three years, and Morgana couldn't remember the last time there was this level of severity associated with the code issued. Time to sit comfortably, she supposed. She might be here a while.

"I'm going to be frank with all of you." Miss Lawson started, her chin raised as she peered at each and every one of the through her white framed glasses. "I've been informed by the chief of police that Gallow's Creek is in danger, and the most likely targets are the eighteen of you."

"Danger from whom?" Glass had asked. Now he was taking this seriously, he was impressively intimidating.

"The Order of the Obelisk, it seems." Miss Lawson pushed up her glasses.

"Isn't that a fanatical cult?" Glass spoke with surprise and an arched eyebrow, likely largely unfamiliar with the name.

"Don't one branch of theirs or another, like," Craric chimed with an adjacent mocking, almost nonchalant attitude, "release a statement to threaten Gallow's Creek every other week?"

"True, but this is the first time the chief of police has taken a significant notice."

"What's different this time?" Morgana joined the conversation. Unlike her colleagues her voice was panged with nerves, her hand twiddling with a lock of her black hair.

"According to the report, a Samuel Randall from the Votaries of the Marigold was the informant."

The room seemed to instinctively turned their eyes in the direction of Mr Griff Harvey, the head of the school's moral and religious studies department. A human, he was a well-known cleric of the martyr god Rydom, and had more than several amiable relationships with other religious sects in Gallow's Creek. Morgana wondered and was tempted to ask if he knew this Samuel personally.

Miss Lawson continued: "He claimed to have received a message directly from the Mother of Madness saying that the Obelisk are planning on massacring some of Gallow's Creek's strongest monsters."

"So we should prepare to fight back." Glass put a hand to his chin, already plotting.

"No. You should prepare to spend the night."

"I'm sorry?" Glass said quickly, an echo from her peers scattering across the room.

"The safest place you can all be is here." Miss Lawson explained her reasoning, that pen tapping again. "It will be impossible for them to pick you off one by one, nevermind get through the school's defences - and having you all in one place makes every other place in Gallow's Creek safer.

"Still," Miss Morgana piped up, her evening plans already mentally being scored off, "we're not the only ones here. Would it really be wise to be in a place where children frequent?"

"The report says they plan to attack at night. All students should have left school grounds."

"Alright," Mr Craric shrugged, scratching his chin. "But what if we're wrong? What if we're not the targets, and then instead of being out protecting the town we're instead cooped up in here sitting on our asses?"

"The police will be dealing with that. I hear from the chief that they're prepared enough already that the Obelisk will be dealt with before they even make it to the school," Miss Lawson's eyes hardened, "Of course, this implies everything goes to plan, but I have faith it will."

"So why should we even be here, if they're so confident?" Glass asked, cold annoyance tinging his voice.

"She already said: we're acting as bait, right?" Craric chirruped, responding before Miss Lawson could.

"That's the plan." Miss Lawson nodded.

"So the disciples won't be crawling the town mindlessly. If we're all known to be at school, there's no reason they should go anywhere else." Craric continued, sensing a complaint from his colleagues.

"Please. If we're all at school waiting, it's a blatant trap." Glass interjected.

"It's one the Obelisk will fall for." Mr Harvey said, his deep voice forever mellow. "They're power hungry and arrogant. If they don't head for the school, regardless of whether they know we're expecting them, then that was never their plan in the first place."

"And in the instance it was never their plan? What then?"

"Then it's all in the police department's hands." Miss Lawson said this in a tone that silenced any further interjections. They were spending the night at the school, and despite the many faces of displeasure littering the room there was nothing more to it. Sitting back down at her desk, without another word Miss Lawson dismissed them, the trio and their colleagues filing out of the office.

"This is bullcrap." Glass muttered repeatedly under his breath as he marched back to his classroom.

"It's for a good reason, at least." Miss Morgana called to him, acting as a mediator. She always did.

"That doesn't mean it isn't bullcrap." He responded, promptly walking on ahead of them.

Miss Morgana sighed. "What do you think, Mira?" She turned to him, trying to ease the pressure from Glass and get the attention away from his bad mood.

"Hmm..." He poised a finger against his bottom lip. "I get the reasoning. But if the police have it under control, what does it matter?" A smile then appeared on his face and hands cupped around his mouth: "I think it's going to be _just fine!_ "

"Shut up, Craric!"

Miss Morgana nodded at the sentiment but cringed at the method, and chimed in with a nervous laugh as she pushed her flowing hair back over her shoulders: "Personally, I'm just anxious that we're leaving the rest of the town wide open for attack - not that I don't trust the police department, of course -"

"You just think we're better?"

Morgana sighed: "Yes. But if it's to lead the Obelisk away from them, I'm all for staying."

Glass finally parted ways as he unlocked his classroom door, the tail of his black silk cardigan trailing behind as took the corner through the doorway. Craric paused for a moment at the bottom of the stairwell Morgana began to take, stopping her before she made her way back to the library for a more private conversation.

"He's worried." He nodded.

"He's very good at hiding it in front of children," she agreed, "but not quite so well in front of us."

"He's certainly skilled at hiding it behind such a cold expression," he added, turning to lean on the bannister, "though not as good at hiding it as me."

"You're nervous too?" 

"Are you not?"

"Fair point, but... That's surprising."

"Tell me about it," Craric sighed. "I haven't felt this uneasy in a long time. I hate it when people hide their feelings; doing it myself just feels wrong. Trying to balance external demeanors and internal emotions when talking is a nightmare."

"Oh? And how do you view me? Am I honest enough for you?"

Craric smiled, slouching. "You're an oddball. You don't seem to be afraid to hide your fears, which just makes me wonder what you're truly afraid of - or if you're just brave as all hell."

"Mira," Morgana returned the smile sweetly, with an instinctive response, "I can still be brave when terrified. Bravery isn't measured _by_ your fear, it's measured by how you _deal_ with fear."

Craric waved a hand, standing up straight: "Alright, cut the philosophy crap. It's too much for my pretty brain. I've got some musicians to boss around."

Morgana caught his gaze before he left, "And you'll be brave for them, won't you?"

"Always." Craric exited the conversation with a two finger wave, "I fear what you'd do to me if I weren't!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first wrote this chapter, it had COMPLETELY different characters - Miss Morgana had Mr Harvey's role, for a start, and her role here was taken by GC's head of chemistry. Dee, Grimes, and Shirley weren't even in it. I'm happier with this rendition of the scene, though.


	8. October 30th, 5PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of the most fun chapters to write; Robin and Anton crime drama with ten seasons when

It was rare for Robin to close his shop within his usual working hours. It was even rarer to do so on a day that would boost his sales, such as when the week crept closer and closer to a holiday. But who cares! He was getting to spend time with Anton at an hour other than first thing in the morning, in a situation other than making him coffee. They were still meeting in the context of work, sure, but for once it wasn't his work. It wasn't his cosy little café. It was the world of crime, the world of drama, the world of getting to hit a button and the lights on top of your car lighting up and going wee-woo. Life was getting better by the second.

Robin decided to walk to the police department, Anton's place of work, partially because he needed the exercise and mainly because he didn't have a licence. The bus stopped too far away for it to be worth it anyway, and you could never trust its timing. Well, you could, but he knew that everytime the bus stopped to pick someone up or drop them off he would fill with the anxiety that he wouldn't make it in time, and who needed that? That sort of anxiety was the same reason it took Robin forty-five minutes to decide what to wear only to settle on the exact same thing he was already wearing, minus the apron. But his dilemmas were out the window now, so with zeal in his step Robin threw on his coat, locked up his shop, and made his way to the day's adventure.

The sun had successfully climbed Galllow's Creek's brick buildings and had stood at the top watching the view for hours, and now it had decided to go abseiling down them. What the shadows did not claim a warm orange light bounced off, making the blank outer walls of the businesses, apartments, and warehouses shine with that Gallow's Creek glow. He was glad none of these flat walls had advertisements on them - something about the bare expanse of muted red, shining with a diffuse orange cream, felt vaguely... Comforting. He felt at home.

Robin frowned. What time was it? He had left home at four-twenty, but for how long was he walking? When he had checked online it said it was a thirty-four minute walk, but what if that was an understatement? What if he had to up his pace? He checked his phone: four-twenty-three. He had plenty of time. He was going to make it with around ten minutes to spare. Loads of time. Oodles of time... But what if he wasn't? What if he dawdled, or got distracted, or ran into an unexpected diversion? No, that wouldn't happen. He would never get distracted in regards to a chance to hang out with Anton, and he had checked five times that nowhere on his path was even near a diversion, nevermind out of service itself. He was fine.

Robin upped his pace. Better early than late, after all. He couldn't bear the idea that he would fail to grab this chance when it was so nearly in his hands. And anyway, when he was in closer proximity he could slow down. This was just a precaution; do the hard work now so you can relax later. What harm could a brisk walk do?

  
*

  
"Robin." Anton said, looking at the clock on the wall. "You're nearly twenty minutes early."

"Oh, am I?" Robin laughed awkwardly. Around halfway through the walk down he couldn't take it anymore and broke into a sprint. His pale cheeks had always had pearlish pink hues, but now the color was more evidently flushed with red. His grey woolen coat tied around his waist, sweat dripped off his brow. "Oops. I was certain I was going to arrive later than this."

"What time did you set off?" He asked, an arm slung over the back of his chair. He sat at a computer, filling out some sort of document.

"Oh, um... four-twenty or so? Perhaps a little earlier, eheheh..."

"Christ, Robin, were you walking or running?" He shook his head. "Listen, I still have some stuff here to work through. It's not much, so go chill in the break room while I wrap up here. Get a drink or something."

Robin let out a breath of hot air along with a nod, and after being told directions three times by two different people finally reached the break room. It wasn't hard to find - it was only across the room - but your brain is a little wonky when you've been running more in one burst than you have for the rest of the year so far. The things you do for love.

Only one person was in the break room although to his surprise it was someone he knew: Officer Ramona Lawson, Anton's partner. According to what he had heard from Anton she was human, a goal-driven girl, and though not the most intelligent at times had an unmatched charisma powered by her enthusiasm. Her skin was a rich umber color, freckles spotted across her cheeks like bubbles in soda. Her hair was frizzy and dyed bubblegum pink, the color matching her lip gloss. Between her job, her appearance, and her outstanding personality, she seemed like someone who had their life together - and if she didn't, she found the best she could out of life and kept on keeping on.

"Ramona?" Robin said cheerfully upon entering. He had only met her once or twice, but had heard lots about her.

"Robin? It's been ages!" She clapped her hands in disbelief, Robin relieved she remembered him. She set her mug down on the counter next to the fridge, going in for a hug before Robin stopped her, pointing at his red face. He was not going to be responsible for ruining a girl's make-up and making her reek of his sweat.

She helped him with the water cooler, giving him his drink in a flimsy paper cup he almost crushed twice. It was refreshing; especially for something coming from a water barrel that had likely been sitting in a warehouse for several weeks. He could do without the cup, though. It was uncomfortable to hold and almost impossible to recycle. He'd rather place his head directly under the tap.

"So," Ramona started in a chipper voice, picking her coffee mug back up, "you're going in my place to help Anton this afternoon? It's not gonna be easy!"

"I'm sure it won't be, but that's why I have Anton, right? Let him do the talking while I stick in the back as moral support." The two shared a laugh at his remark: her laugh was loud, unapologetic, and welcoming. She was someone who was never afraid to be happy, her very soul having a rose-colored glow.

"I was wondering," Robin added once they hadn't quietened down, "why aren't you going with Anton today?"

"Oh, I have to help the chief with some sort of clean-up before the holidays set in." Ramona rolled her eyes. "Organising files, boxing cold cases, the like... Giving us a fresh slate to work on for the Christmas season."

"God, that sounds boring."

"Tell me about it. If his head wouldn't fall off, I'd wring Anton's neck for daring to get out of it! But it's not all bad! Once that's over, I have to head over to the high school to help my sister."

"Your sister works at the high school?"

"Yup; she's the principal's secretary. That school would be in ruins if it weren't for the work she puts in!"

"Wow. I had no idea - hell, I didn't even know you had a sister." Robin took another sip of his drink. His cup was starting to disintegrate. "What's up at the high school?"

"Apologies, but I'm 'fraid my lips are sealed." She raised her glass and winked at him, kind of like how Leonardo DiCaprio did in _the Great Gatsby_. She finished her mug of what Robin guessed was an instant mocha (blasphemous), and then said her goodbyes as she begrudgingly went to go help with the police department's autumnal spring clean.

A few minutes later Anton poked his head in the door. "You ready to go?"

"You betcha."

Anton's car smelled nice. The air freshener he used to mask the smell of corpses (a smell he claimed he gave off but Robin wasn't quite convinced by) was called " _Sunlight on Snow_ ", which apparently has the light scent of vanilla with added baby powder. The seats were easy to adjust and left plenty of leg room, something Robin didn't particularly need as much as some others but appreciated nonetheless.

"Can I turn on the siren?"

"You cannot."

"What if I said please?

"No."

" _Pretty_ please?"

"Still no."

"Boo."

Robin adjusted his seat forward and looked out the window. The orange color was growing stronger, and he knew in an hour or so it'd be blinding - after that, the only orange light he'd see would be from the jack-o'-lanterns littered on porches up and down the block. Anton smoothly manoeuvred his car out of his parallel park and down into Gallow's Creek's high street, gliding through traffic, the wind in Robin's hair as he leaned his head towards the open window. More wind than he expected, actually. He rolled the window back up.

For someone who didn't know how to drive or ride a bike, travelling through Gallow's Creek at this speed was exhilarating, in his own childlike way. Backed up traffic practically moved around them, for them, parting out of fear of being stopped by the guy in the cop car (and his dashing accomplice). Anton was clearing lengths that would mean a fifteen minute walk in a tenth of the time, and it made Robin chuckle.

"What are you laughing for?" Anton said smiling as they rolled up to a red light.

"Haven't been in a car for a long time. I mean, living in the centre of GC everything I need's within walking distance, and everything else I could ever want I can catch a bus for."

"God bless Gallow's Creek's public transport." He replied, making Robin snort in amusement.

"Still," Robin went on, "it's like being on a rollercoaster. An anticlimactic rollercoaster, but a rollercoaster."

"...Have you ever even been on a rollercoaster?"

"Not since I was, like, 15. Have you?"

Anton shrugged, "When I was alive, sure. I'm pretty sure I went on one?"

"You haven't been on one since?"

"God, no. My head would fall off."

"Couldn't you like... Strap it down?"

"With what? Duct tape?"

"Have you tried?"

Anton rolled his eyes, Robin giggling. "It's worth a shot!" He claimed, Anton sighing deeper with each time he suggested it. He gave up his antics when Anton pulled up to their destination and politely told him to shut up.

The building they were parked in front of was the La Voisin Apartments, the high class side of homes available in the centre of Gallow's Creek. Anton informed Robin upon entering the lobby that the establishment was named after a famous French witch, to which Robin remarked that was a weird thing to name an apartment block, of all things, after. Despite its odd naming the building itself was refined with elegant decor, almost more like a hotel than an apartment block at times.

"You can't tell me this place isn't a hotel." Robin said, watching the dial above the elevator door go from right to left, signalling the elevator was coming down to them, "Look at that. You only find that in hotels."

"I'm not saying this place didn't _used_ to be a hotel," Anton reasoned, "but I assure you it currently is not."

"Hmm... You sure it doesn't operate as a hotel? Even occasionally?"

"How would that even work? Besides, if it were a hotel, it'd get run into the ground by the Traveller's Rest."

"Yeah, true." Robin agreed, "That's a better hotel than this one."

"Mainly because this place isn't a hotel." Anton added under his breath.

The elevator ride up to the penultimate floor was smooth, but the mid-century modern style of the whole place (and by extension the elevator) made Robin doubt its safety, feeling like it was going to stall at any minute and plummet back down into the ground. He made a mental note to take the stairs on the way back.

"God, I'd hate to be her if this elevator ever went out of service." Robin mentioned as they reached their stop, "Having to take the stairs up after a long day's work would kill me."

"Actually, she's quite the homebody." Anton replied, taking the lead as he searched for the right apartment. "It'd be a problem for her wife, but not really for her."

"What, is she agoraphobic?"

"She might be, but no, she's a vampire. She works from home."

"Oh. Same thing."

Anton laughed, "I'm guessing she didn't find the appeal of a night shift."

"I can see why."

"Oh?"

"I mean, you mentioned she had a wife - hell, she's the whole reason we're here - and I'm assuming she works a day shift. Wouldn't she want to be home at the same time as her?"

Anton cocked his head a little. Walking in front Robin didn't see it, and continued, "Even if she did take up a job elsewhere from home, if I were her wife then I'd switch to night shift too. There's no point being married to someone and then not being with them for most the day if you can avoid it."

They stopped at the correct apartment, Anton ringing the doorbell. It was a short, pleasant, three-note melody, "You have a very romantic outlook on life." He said as they waited, a comment Robin wasn't sure how to react to.

After an oddly long amount of time, the door was answered by a skittish woman, looking to be in her mid-thirties - of course, being a vampire, she could be anywhere between that and her mid-three-thousands. Her skin was fair, the color of the sand of a Caribbean island, with undertones of lilac and the highlights in her cheeks glistening like pearls. Her eyes were a striking blood red, like Felix Glass', and they matched the scrunchie that desperately held together the messy bun that grabbed the masses of her greyish brown hair. She was in a grey woollen sweater dress that flattered her hourglass figure, a rust colored snood wrapped closely and neatly around her neck. Pity. Robin was wondering if she had bite marks.

"Mrs Gail Warren?" Anton said, holding out his hand.

"Officer Wardell." She returned his gesture. She had the distinctive twangs of a New York accent, but it wasn't strong enough for Robin to tell from where exactly. Queens, maybe?

"Please, call me Anton."

She nodded, giving a polite smile, "And this is?"

"Mr Robin Devine. He's a close friend of mine, and will be helping me while my partner is away."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Robin." She held out her hand, and he shook it instinctively. It was so cold he nearly flinched.

She stepped out of the doorway, ushering them inside. The apartment, or at least the living room, was a little messy, though he could believe that rustic would be a word used to describe it. The patterned carpet was vision from the late sixties, floral designs in shades of red and brown, with light marks in the occasional spot as a consequence of moved furniture. Soft jazz was playing from somewhere Robin couldn't locate, bringing a calm and homely ambience. He couldn't help but notice all of the curtains were drawn; heavy blinds of a rich copper, embroidered flowers dotted around.

"I'm so sorry, I completely forgot you were coming! Please, uh, give me a moment." Mrs Warren tittered as she scratched the back of her head. She scurried off to a back room, closing the door softly behind her.

"Nice lady." Robin whispered, Anton nodding. They stood gawkily, afraid to sit on any furniture or even step on a new portion of carpet. They looked around at the many features of the room, each of some importance, each a part of the life of a woman they barely knew. A pace away was a hutch, a thick photo album sitting on top. That definitely must have had some importance. Enticing.

"I'm not sure it's a good idea to go snooping." Anton said, coming over to meet him when he noticed Robin's interest in the item, "We don't particularly want to get on her bad side."

"But you came over to look too, right?"

Anton winced.

Carefully, Robin picked the hefty book up with both hands, Anton peering at it over his shoulder. He slid his thumb under the leather bound cover, lifting it to reveal the heavy pages underneath. He felt weirdly diffident, guilty even, as if he were committing a minor offence. But he had an accomplice, and that gave him the confidence he needed to peer inside.

"It's... A wedding album."

It was dated four years ago, in late April. It held photos of Mrs Warren in a gorgeous white gown, holding hands and laughing with a tanned woman in a white suit.

"That's her wife, right?" Robin inquired, flicking through the photos.

"Yup." Anton nodded, eyes still on the photos, "She's the reason we're here. She was shifted on the night of the full moon."

"And Mrs Warren was with her."

"Who was I with?" Mrs Warren returned, Anton and Robin snapping their heads round to face her and trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, an attempt that was destined to fail from the start. She had let her hair down, and it was lying in large, wavy curls, like twisting ivy.

"Oh, you've found our album!" She chuckled a little nervously, striding over, "That... Was a wonderful day."

"Your wife's name is Bridget, correct?" Anton said, referring to the other woman in the photos.

"Yup, that her. The love of my life." Mrs Warren smiled sweetly and ended the sentence with an almost musical tone, her shoulders becoming relaxed. She seemed happy to talk about her wife.

Robin set the album back down, and Mrs Warren regarded for them to sit in a red loveseat. It was soft to the touch, like suede, and it heavily exhaled when they sat down. Mrs Warren herself sat across from them in an identical armchair, fixing her black and red glasses as she swept her hair out of her eyes.

"How did the two of you meet, Mrs Warren?" Anton asked. He had brought a notepad and pen out of the chest pocket of his uniform's jacket, but it didn't seem like he was looking to record the answer to this particular question.

"Oh, uh, feel free to call me Gail." She said, flicking her wrist, "And a mutual acquaintance set us up on a blind date. Well, uh. Blind for Bridget. The acquaintance had told me a lot about her - a lot of it false, actually - but Bridget never learned of the arrangement of the meeting until an hour beforehand."

"That sounds... confusing."

"Tell me about it." She chuckled with a sigh, likely reminiscing the encounter, "But... It worked. We ended up growing closer as I tried to work out what I was told was true and what wasn't. We would laugh over the absurdities I fell for."

"That's certainly a unique way to find your lover." Robin remarked, smiling along with her. He couldn't help but beam: he was sucker for any flavour of romantic trope.

"Oh, definitely. But it was nice to have someone else to talk to, y'know?"

"Couldn't agree more."

"I hate to butt in on a good conversation," Anton said, pen in hand, "but I'm going to need to ask you about the night of the twenty-fourth."

"Of course." Gail took a mug from a nearby coaster in her hand. She had likely been drinking it before they came in.

"Alright. Can you run through your day for me?"

"Let's see..." She looked up, desperately trying to recall last week in as much detail as she could. "Regarding the full moon, it started in the morning. Bridget was setting off to work, and on her way out she informed me it was the full moon tonight. I wrote that down in my diary and gave her a thumbs up as she went out the door."

"Where does Bridget work?" Robin asked, trying to be as useful as possible.

"She works as a post woman. Her base of operations is on King Street, about a eight minute walk from here."

"What are her working hours?" Anton asked, pen at the ready.

"Oh, uh, surprisingly, the typical nine-til-five. She has half hour breaks at eleven-thirty to twelve and two to two-thirty."

"What time does she leave and arrive home? Around then?"

"Yeah. Leaves around eight-forty-five and gets home at five-ten or so."

"I see." Anton nodded, finally glad to get to write something of even vague importance. "Continue with what happened that day."

She took a breath. "I stayed home all day, as per usual. I slept for most of it, around nine until three. Then I got up, wrote for about an hour and a half, and then took a bath. I was in the bath when Bridget got home - I remember that clearly, because she came in to ask if I wanted her to run a load of laundry."

"What do you write about?" Robin asked curiously as Anton jotted down what she had just said.

"Oh, uh, I'm a fiction writer." If Gail had any color in her face, she might have blushed then. "I'm writing a romantic fantasy at the moment."

Robin's grin couldn't get bigger, and a nagging voice wondered if was becoming creepy. But he was surprised he had never heard of her before! "What's the plot? If it's not a secret, of course."

Anton cleared his throat, and Gail tittered again. Denied.

"Sorry, sorry." She said, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She crossed her legs, holding her knee. "Once Bridget got home we had a small meal, I think soup? Yeah, soup. Then Bridget got changed into a bathrobe and I put on my cloak, and we headed out into the forest."

"What time did you leave home, and what time did you get to the forest?" Anton was looking up at her, his head still tilted downwards at his pad.

"We left home at twilight, a little after six. I couldn't tell you when exactly we arrived, but we walked, so probably just before seven."

"And where in the forest do you usually go?"

"We usually stick around the west section of the forest, although not quite deep enough to reach the radio tower. We don't go anywhere near the Fey Wild, but I think we occasionally step into the jurisdiction of the mothman. That's a guess, though - I've never gotten the opportunity to see her."

"Wait, the mothman lives in Gallow's Creek? Like... The mothman in West Virginia?" Robin asked quizzically, alarmed that nobody had told him this.

"Same race, different person." Anton answered, finishing off his notes on what Gail had just said, "Right. What happened between when you got there and when you left? Be as specific as you can."

"Oh jeez, let's see." Gail put a hand on her chin, "Within fifteen minutes of arriving, Bridget disrobed, and around a minute later shifted. She ran off, and I followed after. She would stop, I would stop. She would zoom off again, and I would zoom after her. I never once let her out of my sight. I'm certain of that, Officer Wardell."

"And it continued like that all night?"

"Yes. It always does."

"Did you see or hear anything at all out of the ordinary?"

"I..." Gail slumped, trying to formulate her next sentence, "I didn't think anything of it at the time, but... The other wolves were so _loud_."

"Other wolves?"

"Yes: the forest is huge and sheltered, so it's a popular place for werewolves to spend the full moon. In all my years of following Bridget I've only run into another werewolf once or twice, but I always hear them."

"And this time they were particularly noisy?"

"It... Their howls were... Wilder. And they weren't as consistent as they usually are. I just figured they had a little scrap or something and kept my attention on Bridget. Whatever happened wasn't my problem." She repeated that last sentence again under her breath, a twinge in it.

"Gail, you should be aware that your presence that night was likely what saved your wife. You should be happy." Anton lounged back, his pen and notepad in his lap.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I just... Without meaning to pry, Officer, how far are you along with your investigation?"

"We have a solid lead. We'll be investigating them further over the next few days."

Gail chuckled, her hands in her lap, "Give 'em hell for me, okay? Promise me that. If it had been my Bridget added to the numbers, I wouldn't be here right now. I would be hunting them down to the ends of the earth."

"You're very admirable." He smiled politely, "I would be honoured to."

They shook hands again, Robin now braced for her cold grip. She left her number with Anton and bid them goodbye, making sure to call if she remembered anything else. The ride down was silent (Robin had forgotten to take the stairs and once again regretted not doing so), and so was the walk through the lobby.

"She was helpful, right?" Robin said more than asked, buckling into the passenger seat.

"Nope." Anton replied flatly, settling in.

"What? Really? But she told us so much!"

"Nothing we didn't already know."

"But the wolves! We could investigate why they were acting erratic, couldn't we?"

"I'd place money it was because they were being slaughtered."

"But... What about her wife? We could question Bridget Warren, couldn't we?"

"She was shifted. Her mind would not have been clear. Even if she saw anything, she wouldn't be able to get anything out of it, provided she even remembered it." He shrugged, "It's why we went to Gail in the first place."

"But... _But_..." Robin snapped his fingers, "What about the mothman? She'll have seen something, right?"

"Provided the murders were in her neck of the woods. And all of the bodies found so far were not."

"But-"

"Robin." Anton sighed, "All we got out of that was confirmation of stuff we already knew, along with the daily routine of a happily married woman. There's nothing we can do regarding her."

The car fell silent, and Anton stuck his key in the ignition. The La Voisin apartments faded into the rearview mirror, Robin watching them as he sulked. The traffic was much heavier now; less willing to let their little cop car through.

"Say, Robin." Anton said after a few minutes, eyes still on the road, "You doing anything tonight?"

Robin's heart lurched, "Nope."

"So you're just staying home?"

"That's right." His stomach flopped. Thank god Anton wasn't looking his way: he probably looked like a deer in the headlights.

"Good. Keep it that way."

The moment of truth: "...Why?"

Anton sighed, his next words coming apprehensively, whatever they were. Robin's heart had the ambition of a NASCAR driver, "That solid lead I told Gail Warren about... We have reason to believe the same people are initiating another attack tonight."

Robin's heart lost the race. Worse than that, it had hit the barrier and crashed and burned, killing the driver inside, "What?"

Anton stammered, searching for the words he needed. "We have reason to believe they will be targeting Gallow's Creek tonight, and though they seem to be focusing on killing monsters, you never know what might happen. I don't want you out doing anything tonight."

Robin's eyes widened, a lump in his throat, "What?" He said louder, for he could find no other words.

"You can't tell anyone, though. No one can panic. We'll deal with it. Just _stay home_ tonight - lock up early, switch off all your lights and sit in bed watching a movie or something."

"Anton-! I mean... W-who's the culprit?"

Anton's grip on the steering wheel tightened, "A reliable informant came forward and said it was the work of the Order of the Obelisk. The chief had a meeting with them and believes his words are the truth."

"The Order of the Obelisk? Isn't that, like, that Samuel Randall guy?"

"No. You're thinking of the Votaries of the Marigold."

"Aren't they the same thing?"

Anton looked at him, almost disappointingly, " _No_. Not at _all_. That's... That's like saying Islam and Jihadism are the same thing."

"Oh. Wait, so what's the difference? Between the Obelisk and the Marigold, that is."

"They both worship the goddess of insanity, but have differing opinions about the important sections of her mythos. They also have drastically different ideas about how important compassion is, and how different races deserve to be treated. While monsters reside within the Marigold's ranks, it's not uncommon for the Obelisk to hunt monsters for for the hell of it. Drinking the blood of monsters is a common act within the faction."

"Drinking blood? Wait, do you think they're behind the werewolf murders?"

"It's hard to believe it would be anyone else. The informant certainly seems to think they were, anyway."

"So you're telling me they're not only deluded cultists, but also genocidal bastards. But does... There can't be anything like that in her mythos, can there? Why would the average person worship her?"

"You're right, there isn't. But the Obelisk twisted it to their liking. According to her mythos, there are several planes of insanity, and depending how insane someone is then they will see a different reality. They believe monsters don't belong in the _true_ plane of reality, whatever the fuck _that_ is, and they're willing to massacre as many monsters as it takes for them to purify the world and see that reality themselves - even if those monsters are pacifists or children."

Robin slumped back into his seat, a bitter taste in his mouth, "That's so fucked up."

"Tonight will be tough. But we're gonna sort it. We've had suspicions for a while now that they operate in the dog park, and our informant confirmed it. We'll have them surrounded." Anton nodded, and Robin wasn't sure if he was trying to confirm this to Robin or himself, "We're never going to be able to eliminate the Obelisk, but if we save lives tonight then we'll have done our job right."

"But, hold on... Aren't you exactly what they'll be looking for? I mean, you're a monster. It isn't safe!"

"Monster or not, I have a job to do."

"That's not an excuse!" Robin heard his voice crack, but pressed onwards, "You had the audacity to tell me to go hide and I'm not even on their radar! You don't even know what you're facing! Y-you could die!"

"Robin, I've died before." Anton said weakly, his expression stone cold, "It isn't so bad."

" _Anton!_ "

Silence fell over the car again. Robin was shaking, but it wasn't with rage. He was afraid. He was so, so very afraid. If he could grab that steering wheel and drive them the hell out of Gallow's Creek he would, but he couldn't. Stupid him, never learning how to drive.

"I just..." Anton sighed heavily, eyes on the road, "I worry about you, Robin. A lot. I don't want something avoidable to happen."

Robin wanted to reply, to tell him he was dumb for trying to be heroic, to tell him he worried about him too, but he couldn't find the words. He just looked out the window, eyes filled with that orange sunset glow.

"I promise I'll visit you first thing in the morning for my usual, okay?"

Robin kept silent, nodding as he bit the inside of his cheek.

Anton dropped him off outside The Rosebud, giving him a smile and a wave as he drove off. Robin slunk inside, and with his legs like lead, crept upstairs to do as he was told; to change into his pajamas and put on a movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gail is a sweetie and I love her, look at her and Bridget [here](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1674047)


End file.
